𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐬 | a collection

Ocean waves in Middle Earth

Ocean waves. I hear them sometimes, most likely towards the end of summer, just before school starts again. By ocean waves I don't mean literal ones, of course ; I've always lived too far away from the sea to hear them anytime besides summer vacation. What I describe is much more subtle, you see ; because if you prick up your ears enough, the sound of the passing cars around four in the morning uncannily resembles that of the ocean.

That is my sea. When you tell someone about Normandy, usually it doesn't take them more than five minutes to mention the infamous D-Day beaches. Despite spending the first seventeen years of my life there, I've never set foot on one of them. My Normandy it's the Middle Earth, where you drive for hours on end across thousands upon thousands of kilometers of crops and fields - although there may be the occasional barn or cow farm to distract you - to get to the next big city. And one of these big cities is my dear hometown, nestled in the middle of Normandy with its only real advantage being sharing a river with Paris. I know it served our predecessors well - in the times where it was common to travel by boat, that is.
That is to say, there was not the sliver of a chance I'd get to hear anything akin to the sea. I was never upset by this, as I was used to things always being this way and, quite frankly, the smell and ambiance of the sea was never a like of mine as a child. So during the summer I'd humor my parents by following them to whatever beach town struck their fancy and suffering through the sensory nightmare some call a beach, then I'd happily spend the rest of my vacation laying on my bed with my window open. Quite the risk I was taking, especially during the night, considering the behemoth that were those damn mosquitos.

But still, I kept my window open, for the night to sing me to sleep. I didn't like to sleep in complete silence. It felt wrong, uncanny. Like every living being just vanished and left me here to stay, all alone and afraid. Nowadays that issue is easily taken care of thanks to my headphones, but back then the night was all that I had. And it worked, truly it did. Hearing the rustle of the trees in the wind, the far-off traffic on the nearby highway or the loud conversation in my neighbors' garden ; it felt good, like an anchor.
I can't remember if I already noticed the sound of the sea in the early morning traffic, but I noted it surprisingly late in my life. 'Surprisingly' because it came to me long after I stopped relying on the night to feel safe. I've long since switched from tossing and turning until I eventually pass out from exhaustion to putting my focus on some form of media I could consume with my eyes closed to fall asleep.

It was not too long ago, actually. Maybe a few days after I moved away in a town even more secluded than my own, hours away from the sea or any major rivers. Despite how much I've tried to reassure myself about moving almost a seven hour drive away from my hometown, the stress had suddenly taken ahold of me one or two days after the move, and it had started to plague my nights. Usually, I would stay awake until dawn, then pass out a few hours and wake up around three in the afternoon. And, during these nights, I would often lay in my bed - no music and no other form of media whatsoever - and just hear the night again. In that instant, I missed the Rouen night dearly. Despite moving into a much smaller town, living in the middle of the city limited the nocturnal soundscape a great amount. Furthermore, the middle of August is not exactly known for being the noisiest or most active one. That being said, living on the sixth and last floor of my apartment complex, the chime of the wind was so much more intense than what I usually hear. But apart from that, nothing, really.

And then I heard it. It was getting close to five and the sky was already starting to pale. I was laying on the mattress in a dazed state, and I heard it.
One car. Two cars. Three cars. Five cars.
From up above, they sounded hushed, almost gentle. they passed with the same intervals as calm waves caressing the sand of some beach I went to as a child. It was nice, and strangely comforting, and in this moment that realization hit me. And when the comparison settled in, it felt strange. Like a simultaneous warm feeling in my chest and a chime of the wind on my skin amidst the brazing heat.

It felt nice. I think it's because it made the night feel the same as in Rouen. It helped me anchor myself here, in that new place in the night I had not sailed away to yet. And in this moment, the night is home.
It is home.