Posted by: pendrops | November 9, 2008

smaller still


I stood on the lonely edge of the Pacific Coast. A misty rain whipped from the endless waters and gray clouds rolled overhead, almost close enough to touch, salty enough to taste. The dunes and sea grasses had beckoned us to the solitary shoreline along with the curious footprints of other recent sojourners.

I stooped to pluck smooth stones from the drenched and sticky sand. I breathed. I gasped. I blinked through tears. I kissed Jason. I touched the foamy water. I let minuscule grains fall through my fingers.

And there was something it wanted to say to me – all of it. I could feel it. Something whispering in the blue-green waves frothing and rising away in the distance, ending up, a moment later, at the cracked leather of my loafers. In the air, saline and fresh and unfettered, coming from so high above to surge against the freckles on my face. In the smooth, volcanic stones embedded in the soggy sand, carried from the deep places.

So I listened

I leaned in.

I pulled my collar close around my face.

“What’s that you say?” I wondered as the drizzle came down from the slate sky.

And there it was, in the untamed rush of the sea and its seeming infinite expanse.

I am small.

So small.

And the mountains, the molehills I make, smaller still.



  1. Wow. beautifully written.

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