Heart Waves

21 Mar

by Cassidy Cole

The things you learn about the ocean are not things about the salty water. Yes, there are the little fishes and the big and cunning sharks within that saltiness. Tell me this: is the ocean always what’s above the surface? Is there a catalyst to the ocean’s yank, revealing its inner self, thwarting you from breathing? What if the ocean waves became still? Say those waves were your immediate passageway to freedom, and that was taken away from you. Your freedom would have disappeared, and you would no longer believe the ocean was your remedy.

Imagine this: your eyes are like radar where you can see love in its conspicuous form. You look at the ocean, seeing the earth curve over like it does on the globe. How much love do you think you would see? You would see the broken hearts, the glory of being away . . . the failure to succeed. My belief in love seems to be slipping through my hands little by little like sand sprinkling through my webbed hammock.

My grandmother and my father told me I was a terrible daughter, and babbled on about why. I tuned out. My family told me I was terrible?  I’ve never felt so lost. I might as well walk the opposite direction down the shore, somewhere other than where the father that betrayed me was headed. I wish I could erase that day. That day the wind-chill could have frozen the wave that broke me, leaving me cold and vulnerable, without a shield to block the tears.

My father now lives in what I call Neverland; it feels so far away. Yet it’s closer than I think. Now I don’t have one bed, I have two, mine and the other one. I guess you could call it some cold, obviously fake impersonator, trying to be something it could never be: my bed.

It’s done, though I wish I could be finding Nemo, only not looking to be found. My feet are salty and are coated with coarse sand. I’m getting the illusion that the imprints of my feet are getting smaller, maybe because my sense of belonging is disintegrating, taking my existence along with it.

The day they told me about the separation, I have never grasped onto my mother so tightly before when tears weren’t rolling down my cheek. “Why don’t you come give your father a hug?” he said. Once again, that dissonance appeared in my mind. God forbid I hug him. He would be cold plastic in my hands, he would be that Barbie in my arms.  I won’t, I won’t hug him. I wish I could be the girl with the stereotypical family, without a divorce.

The waves are like love, they go up as if they were aiming to tower over a skyscraper, then down again like the side of the earth seems to do when you’re on top of Mt. Everest. Then it frequently hits the shore, and “Bam!” it’s no longer real. But, when this love leads to marriage, the monotonous waves can hit the shore violently, always yanking someone out to sea, drowning them in the slightest bit of despair and the answer to an indecisive question: “Am I lost or am I exploring?”

I’m lost, not exploring. That feeling of waking up in a strange place, not knowing where you are and where you’ve been is lingering in mind. Am I in my bed? Am I in the imposter? Am I okay?

I am okay. I am at the place where hearts collapse and freedom is made. Of course I’m okay. I’m here, my home, the ocean.

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