One Lone Fish
Waves gently lap against the side of the stationary boat. The kind sound of the water, the insistent screech of the gulls, other boats passing by. These noises of the dock reach me as if through a fog. They do not penetrate me, I do not, can not, consider them of relevance to me, nor I to them I would imagine, should I be inclined to. I am neither inclined or able to. The boat is silent, and all I hear is this silence.
This boat. We have travelled so far and for so long on it. A quarter of a century since first, excitedly, boarding it. Spartan on supplies to begin with, but buoyant with joy and expectation. Over time – moving from port to port, always forward, always new – we filled it up, with such precious items! The things we saw, the things we had, and finally the two greatest treasures of all, discovered six thousand miles apart. Glittering and astonishing these two items gave us fresh purpose, and they are what keep us now, entwined, neither of us could ever part from them. But we know; one day we must.
And then, and then, we dropped anchor in this God-forsaken port. What is it now? Seven, eight years? How do people who stand still know where they are? I never understood that. And now I see why. There is no surer way of getting lost than standing still. And now the boat is empty, but I am not ready to leave it, not at all. The boat should be full and rushing along, there is a fair wind to be had, I am sure of it.
But for now here I lay. Cold, lost, unmoving and scared. A lone fish.