Mending Porcelain

o n e

The hesitant sound of the sea crashing against its own side echoed from one ear to another, flowing unsteadily through its rhythm. Between the silence of the wind and the salty noise of the waves, beneath me, my foot crunched under the sand. Sunk deep, allowing a faint footprint to create and then deform.

And within that deepness, before the sea ever came to such a rage to fight itself every day, before the sand split itself in half to allow us to walk over it, within the choking smoke of the clouds I felt nearly as fogged, nearly as drowned, and nearly as vulnerable.

My heart sunk deeper than the sea I watched steadily, grew more confused and complicated than the wrinkles that set the lines of my skin. And my eyes, oh these eyes, felt more drowned than all the oceans combined.

Crying, I walked shakily. Clinging onto the sides of my bushy coat as I tried to breathe the breeze which flew and scattered around me, yet that which I failed to grasp.

Sand had already sprinkled into my shoes, my cheeks already too damp to pass it off as the gentle drizzle of rain, my makeup beginning to run. All the while, the drops tickled my face, my hands froze and numbed in the cold, my breath became visible within the thin clouds of the air. I hated the beach, yet here I was.

And then, climbing the rocks, stood a bold figure. The first I've seen in a long while. I wondered who visited the beach on such a poor, rainy day.

They stood upon the collection of the bigger stones, bigger than them. I neared, careful to not seem out of the ordinary.  Wiping my tears and sniffling all I could before they could hear me.

As they became more apparent, as their figure chirped and sculpted, it became more obvious that it was a man, a black hoodie and jeans, converse too, a black widow in the modern world, returning from a funeral.

And according to what I saw and heard, it felt more possible that he had. He picked up a nearby stone, fetched a spot to throw it and launched it at the sea at exceeding speed, which plopped and crashed far away into an upcoming wave.

He looked around, found a bigger one and completed the same task once more. I was in the position that if I were to walk straight ahead he wouldn't spot me, his back would be turned to me. If my coat were able to soak more falling rain, if my boots haven't squealed in the damp sand, and if my sniffing quietened enough, perhaps then I would've made it.

I neared closer, saw the outstretched hand which grasped a rigid rock, in my mind I saw the muscles pulling on his arm. I fetched my sight as his legs bent ever so slightly, pondering, and flickered my eyes to observe the way he lunged back to put the stone to orbit. 

I saw the muddied shoes he wore, the dirty jeans he wiped his hands on and the wet hoodie that began to slowly stick to his chest, broad and wide. I watched the rock fly, high and far, under the clouds and the grey background, and watched it hit with a dense collision of the ocean.

I observed the way the harsh stone splattered and disturbed the water, parted its ways and created a dent which disappeared within seconds. I saw the flying sparks and droplets that it released. I felt the same dent and consequence in my heart. Why was I able to relate to this stranger?

I gazed back to him, his challenging stance. The way his arms arched from his chest, the soft fluff of his hair, now belittled by the rain. The violence he held in him, vibrant in every way.  I wondered. About him. But how may you wonder about such a being, so insignificant but so intriguing. What must you put first, what must you question?

What was his heart like? The question sprung in my head like a priority. Heartbroken, in vein, in petty, in rage? Perhaps in grief, regret, or some dystopian pleasure?

I knew, as I was shortly going to pass him that I had questions I would wish I had answers for. And so, putting my foot forth and changing my direction, I let my feet slowly sink into the gentle sand, let my steps be gentle and quiet as I unwillingly made my way to the answers.

Perhaps, Miles, this is where I went wrong.  Isn't it?