Walking the shoreline on a cold, rainy day, the small waves had small nipples of sea-foam on them, rubbed by the gusty wind.
Yet I walked barefoot, and the sodden sand gave beneath my soles, marking my presence as the ocean’s ebb erased it in the next heartbeat.
A few gulls, probably too old to brave the wind and follow the boats, fished closer to the shallows, ignoring my own empty hands that held nothing for them.
The air, though chill, held brought the scents of brine, loam, and sea-rot.
Mist sat on the water’s surface, a fat, gray toad that obscured the pewter-hued horizon.
It seems these silent, sad, and shrouded shores are yours alone today. My gulls, who sit at the funeral feasts, don’t seem to remember me.
“But there is serenity here, and the small whispering waves soothe my battered spirit. And while you do need the gulls, they are of no consequence, since they only take from you, giving nothing back.”
And you. Are you of consequence?
“That isn’t up to me, but to the people whose lives I’ve touched. For some it will be yes, for others, no.”
Then you are like my gulls, useful only in the context where you are necessary.
“Yes, but all of the gulls are needed by you. I will only be useful to a few, if I’m lucky, or even one. Hopefully, at least one.”
Then you, who stand here alone in this confining gloom, speaking your heart to me, and listening to mine, will be my one.
“And you, who trusts me with your heart’s secrets, will be mine.”