I have heard that the salt water within us—our tears, our sweat—have an innate desire to rejoin their native tributary: that vast blue expanse lapping on the shores of our ancient land. This magnetism, this invisible rope tethering us to the ocean, pulls harder at some than at others, but all of us feel it, whether we know it or not.
The deepest depths of the seas remain a mystery to human consciousness–their secrets, the unknown species scouring the ocean floor for scraps; yet the sea nourishes us. Its salt water heals all wounds. The tumbling waves–the ultimate reminder of how small we each are. Standing on the roiling shoreline, staring unabashedly at the beauty that extends beyond the horizon, forces even the most brazen to contemplate this beautiful world and her place within it.
The tiny fragmented seashells, the clumps of tangled seaweed, the beach glass worn smooth by endless tumbling in the waves, all manner of remnants washed up on the shore give us the briefest of glimpses into the true majesty that extends below the undulating surface. These items tell of long ago secrets, of a place that humans can never inhabit and can never fully know. These tawdry scraps that brush up against our ankles as we wade into the depths are tiny gifts, telling of a place where we may only visit, but never live.
From the craggy coastlines, to the sandy beaches, the ocean chisels away at our land, at our very beings, pushing itself into the crevices and cracks, filling up the voids of space and time–ever present, ever watchful. What skeletons reside beneath those whispering waves? Only the ocean knows.
CLAIRE
God she was tired. Who said being a working mom was easy? Claire guessed no one, as she watched her son and his best friend shooting hoops on her black-topped driveway. Jimmy had been bugging her relentlessly for a playdate, and she finally caved and called Kyle’s mom, Trish, last night to invite him over.
“All the other kids have playdates all the time,” Jimmy had said last week. “How come I don’t?”
Maybe because all the other moms don’t work 40 hours a week. Maybe because I don’t get home until at least 6 o’clock at night … and that’s on a good day. Maybe because all the other moms have time to sign up to be the Class Mom or the PTA President or a Field Day chaperone.
It made Claire a bit bitter to think about some of the other moms in the neighborhood, moms who could actually drop off their own children at school instead of enrolling them in the “Before Care” program. Moms who sipped coffee in their quiet homes and who took Yoga classes and got pedicures. Moms who picked up their children exactly at 3:25pm at Robert Moses Elementary School in their LuLuLemon workout pants. Moms who weren’t frazzled all the time. Moms who didn’t have that overwhelming sense of guilt weighing upon their shoulders like a leaden scarf tied too tightly.
Claire and her husband, Joe, knew that this house and this neighborhood were above their budget, but they went for it anyway. The school district was top-of-the-line and their home, even though significantly more modest than most of the others–and in need of some updating–was situated on a quiet, tree-lined street. They splurged. Claire didn’t regret it. Neither did her husband, even though he had to work nearly 60 hours a week at the office to afford the mortgage.
