Voyage

Waiting for an Odyssey.

I dream of a time when I was nothing but a name whispered. Once it was birthed, a thousand years before, and there it fell from the cliff deep into the waves. There’s no coincidence that I was born a water sign. For a thousand years my name lay collecting salt, unable to moor itself. There it resided being taken with the current. Each breath was held and released. Timed to meet the rocks it smashed against. Timed to glimpse the soft curve of Helios setting. Timed to see the soft curve of Helios dawn once more. There my name was nothing but another ripple of the ocean, perhaps only another ripple in the thousands of names also lost to the waves. The sea took me. I was its child. I was wrapped around myself in its womb. And many times the world ended for me, and still each morning I woke to the gentle push of the tide.

My soul longs for a time I cannot remember, but is embedded into my name. It watched those sail boats out at sea, wondering where they might take me. I am their solitary siren on the rocks. I am their solitary siren without a voice. Is this my homeland? Is a homeland a territory— is it even land? My mother is my homeland— she is my first bed— she is my first— my mother, my first bed, sacred bed. My mother was my first bed, my mother was my first homeland and before her, was there before, if so, whoever my mother was, whether it be the sea or another, they are my first homeland, they are my first bed, but I cannot remember them— I cannot remember them! My mother is my first bed. My mother is my homeland. I am sickening, weakening in a longing to know them. It is a sickness with no end nor start, no cure or respite. I tear at bread and this is their flesh and I drink the wine and this is their blood and I look at my palms and I look at my palm— my palms, do they know?

Then one morning, there was a certain melody in the air. I was once but a voice whispered. A hundred years before this moment. One morning, my name washed itself to shore, unsure of this new land it had found itself upon. And in the sand it drew lines like the palms, drying itself, basking in the first feel of the sun rays. For the first time, it felt the solid land beneath it. For the first time it watched the sun move without the sea swallowing it. One morning my name landed on its first shore and by dusk the tide swept back in and took it back out. The feeling of something solid beneath its feet now a distant shape merging back into the indigo sky.

Night falls and still it does not sleep. Night falls and still the ache in my palms does not cease. I hold them out to the darkness— the dim light of the night knows what they say. I turn them towards me. I see them, shadowed. They are not real. I can feel them attached to me. I bring them to my ears. I cover my ears. They do not speak. But I hear the ocean. I hear it. They do not speak, but cupped to my ear they are the ocean. My lips taste like salt. New rivers form themselves on my cheeks. Night falls and still it does not sleep.

I was nothing but a name whispered lost at sea. Drifting. Covered in salt. Oh, where were you taking me? I acquainted myself with the cliffs. I made a bed of them. Some days, when the tides were gentle, I’d cling to them, before slowly releasing and letting myself be pulled back out. I was not anything but a name whispered.

I’ve created a museum of the sea. It holds memories like paintings. They are stolen, replicated, returned, forgotten, lost. It would take weeks, months, years to inspect each piece. Some look exactly the same from a distance. The salt forms in funny ways. There are lullabies made from the sea weed and from here, it looks like hair, and I’ll never forget the feel of my grandmother’s hands running through my hair, each of her breaths a new melody.

And many times the world ended for me, and still each morning I woke to the gentle push of the tide. Only one morning, I could hear the silence of sand, and I could hear the sea far away from me. Many times the world ended for me, and still each morning I woke to the gentle push of the tide. Only one morning, I woke to the feeling of rocks beneath me. I woke to a new skin wrapped around me. I woke to the pulse of my wrist. I woke to the current of the sea contained within me. I woke the sun on my cheeks. I woke and there was salt on my lips and the breeze blew the hair across my cheeks, and I woke to the rocks beneath me and the sea in front of me. I woke no longer submerged. I woke and I could step in and out of the sea with these two legs. I woke and many times the world ended for me, and still each morning I woke to the gentle push of the tide. And many times the world has ended for me, but not quite like this. None quite like rebirth.

I do not remember my birth, but my mother can remember what I looked like covered in her own blood, and my father can probably remember also. I remember a time falling and hitting my eyebrow on a rock and watching the blood fall into my palm, and watching it run around my palm, then off, and I remember watching a drop of blood fall into the tide and I remember never really crying— I cried, but my tears were silent as my nanna rushed over to me— and I watched my drop of blood take its voyage into the salt foam. I remember watching a drop of blood disappear into the ocean and becoming conscious that I had blood within me. I will never find that drop of blood in the labyrinth of the ocean. But I know it is out there– was out there, somewhere. A voyage.

And many times the world ended for me, and still each morning I woke to the gentle push of the tide. Still the tide tempts me. It is my saviour and my captor. It is my lover and my executioner. It is my lullaby and my lure. And many times the world ended for me, and still each morning I wake to the thought of where the ocean could take me. My name once landed after centuries of voyage. My name once stuck in its voyage. I was Odysseus and I was Ithaca. Waiting for an Odyssey.

Beatrice.

Cover image from Pinterest.