|synaptic disunion|

Thursday, June 21, 2007

lost at sea...

Every year, in early December, he comes here. South from London to Portsmouth, then on to Fishbourne via ferry, then footpaths to Niton. Over the years the changes on the island haven't moved him. More shops, more tourists, more concerts and young people. In December, however, it's quieter than in the summer, and this fits his mood.

When these trips first began, he was a much younger man. Now, age and illness have taken their toll. Unsure of how many more times he'll be able to make this trip, he continues on through the cold winter mist and rain. He must do this, he cannot forget to do this. This is all that he has left.

At the cliff overlooking the sea, St. Catherin's behind him, the rain is even harder. He can hear the storm surf crashing below as he looks out into the gray as far as he can, searching, probing. He sits down, cross-legged on the ground, as he's done every year, rain or shine, leaning back on his backpack.

He waits, but, like so many years before, he ship never arrives. That fishing ship, lost so many years before, still lost.

"I miss you son." he says, as he's done every year. He tells his lost son all about the past year, like so many times before. His only son was a fisherman, like him, like his father before him, and his grandfather before him. But the sea took him, and the sea never gives up the lost.

Rising, he turns away from the sea, and walks back up to Niton, and goes to the same pub he has for years. The old men great him as he enters, knowing his story already they ask no questions. They buy him a drink, and gather around to talk of times gone by.

Labels: character study

: toadman : at Thursday, June 21, 2007 |