3 Women Washed up on The North Beaches
I remember feeling at ease, sitting facing West with a brisk evening wind cutting at my cheeks. By all accounts, the wind should have driven me indoors to warmth and food and comfort but something compelled me to stay. I had taken a short walk along the promenade and had said my hellos to the late evening dog walkers, nodding my head and letting the brim of my cap cover my eyes, while a stifled smile wished them a good evening. I had my face buried in my scarf and my warm breath was doing its best to keep the few hairs I could grow on my chin warm. From where I sat, now up on top of the slopes that lead down to the stoney beaches, the sea seemed quite gentle. Moments earlier the crashing of waves had orchestrated my evening. I like stoney beaches and despite my stay occurring over the winter months I could imagine myself splayed out on those pebbles, warmed by a sun that at that moment seemed almost impossible. It’s funny how in winter summer seems like it’ll never come, that the sky will never turn a pale blue again or that the sun will remain covered by clouds forever. Thunderous waves reduced to a low mumble. For a brief moment the purpose of my visit to this small town seemed as far away as summer. The sea fret and cold air held me In their arms and then all of a sudden their grip loosened. Their chill faded and once again I was alone, looking out to sea. My thoughts flooded with the faces, and names, and stories, of people I would never get a chance to know. Names who I felt so familiar with despite the distance of time. I had seen their graves, met their families and visited their homes. I had told myself it was to memorialise them, to keep a record of the unrecorded. But there I was, a notebook overflowing with the songs of the dead and I was still thinking of myself and my place in all this. I was starting on a thought then, one that I still muddle over sometimes. Perhaps its one of those questions that has no answer, where the answer is far less important than the act of thinking.
Do I do this for me or for them?
Or
What came first, the want to be noticed or the need to?
I remember feeling at ease, sitting facing West with a brisk evening wind cutting at my cheeks. By all accounts, the wind should have driven me indoors to warmth and food and comfort but something compelled me to stay. I had taken a short walk along the promenade and had said my hellos to the late evening dog walkers, nodding my head and letting the brim of my cap cover my eyes, while a stifled smile wished them a good evening. I had my face buried in my scarf and my warm breath was doing its best to keep the few hairs I could grow on my chin warm. From where I sat, now up on top of the slopes that lead down to the stoney beaches, the sea seemed quite gentle. Moments earlier the crashing of waves had orchestrated my evening. I like stoney beaches and despite my stay occurring over the winter months I could imagine myself splayed out on those pebbles, warmed by a sun that at that moment seemed almost impossible. It’s funny how in winter summer seems like it’ll never come, that the sky will never turn a pale blue again or that the sun will remain covered by clouds forever. Thunderous waves reduced to a low mumble. For a brief moment the purpose of my visit to this small town seemed as far away as summer. The sea fret and cold air held me In their arms and then all of a sudden their grip loosened. Their chill faded and once again I was alone, looking out to sea. My thoughts flooded with the faces, and names, and stories, of people I would never get a chance to know. Names who I felt so familiar with despite the distance of time. I had seen their graves, met their families and visited their homes. I had told myself it was to memorialise them, to keep a record of the unrecorded. But there I was, a notebook overflowing with the songs of the dead and I was still thinking of myself and my place in all this. I was starting on a thought then, one that I still muddle over sometimes. Perhaps its one of those questions that has no answer, where the answer is far less important than the act of thinking.
Do I do this for me or for them?
Or
What came first, the want to be noticed or the need to?