Drowning

(Inspired by Island, by Alistair MacLeod)

The wood was smooth under his fingers as they slipped, slick and worn by the same loving waters that sighed as they embraced his body. The froth, snow white like his tired beard, lapped playfully, dancing to the erratic beat of his useless arms on the roiling surface. His hands, scarred and gently healed again by the sea, could find no purchase; there were no familiar cracks or crevices out here on the endless plains of the open ocean. Instead, the firm arms of the sea wrapped around him. The waves rocked him back and forth, their pressure coaxing the air from his coal-blackened lungs. Water-logged clothes and great boots pulled him, tugging, calling him down into the watery twilight, and his arms slowed in their ineffective churning, bound by the horrible yet romantic nostalgia which slid over him like a noose tied at his birth. The icy hold on him softened as the last bubbles slipped sensually between his coarse lips, the gift given by the salty brine now expended and finally returned. The gentle light in his eyes, once as brilliant as the shocking blue of the sea in winter, bled out and swirled amongst the stinging concoction that had always lit their fire in the dawn. With their last moments of drifting consciousness they soaked up the seductive beauty of their own demise, swallowed by the eternal wellspring of life that occupied every fibre of their being. The smooth fingers of the sea now curled round his barrelled chest and coerced him, with bittersweet whispers, into the open dark doorway of the infinite ocean from which he had once been spat forth. As the water rushed to fill his mouth and ears, he could not help but think of his mother.

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By YouthfulParaphernalia.wordpress.com
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