Painting The Sea

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Painting The Sea

When the waves crashed into the sea rocks, my thoughts were foggy. I was lonely. There was nothing to do. So here I am now.

Looking around, I caught sight of what looked a little cave on top of those rocky cliffs. I dashed over to it to have a look. It wasn’t all that big. I could fit in there just fine, but my body was much smaller and frailer than any fifteen-year-old should be.

I reached my pale hand into the cave, letting my fingers graze the rock inside. A second later I held on to something that felt similar to coarse cotton, a texture I couldn’t really place.

I pulled to out and, in my hands, lay a canvas, it was rather large and was stacked against the wall of the cave. Blues, greens and whites were the majority of the canvas. A perfect replica of the sea down below. Looking back into the cave, I found more paintings. All of the sea. Of the waves and the oceans vast. Each more beautiful than the last.

“Oh my,” I sighed softly, ” who has loved the sea so beautifully?”

‘A child’ came the a gentle answer, so faint but so clear and wisped away by the wind.

“Who are you?”

‘It is us!’ Said the voice again, “the sea,”

I tilted my head curiously as I looked down at the waves crashing into the rocks.

“Tell me about them,” I asked.

A melancholy wail resounded throughout the seaside, telling stories of grief and sadness of those who have shed tears in the waters.

“There was a little child, ” began the sea, as I settled down to hear the story, ” who lived in a little house in the moors.”

Every day and every night, that their parents left them alone or saddened their precious heart, they would sit here and paint us.  Their parents never came back as they grew older, abandoned the child in their little house. They were here every day then.

One night, they lost their footing and tumbled into our depths. There was nothing we could do. The paintings are all that our left now.

“How can we destroy someone who has loved us so beautifully?” cried the sea as they cradled the body of a little girl. Her blue dress floating above the water, blending perfectly with its surroundings.  Tears streamed down her cheeks, as she listened to the sea explain why she’s alive.

“You promised me something!” she cried anguished, ” you promised to grant me one wish! Whatever it was!”

The sea soothed her softly, ” we will grant you whatever you want”

“Then let me die! Please!” she sobbed harder at the lack of an answer

“Please!” she begged once more, ” I didn’t fall! I jumped; I wish to die. Please let me go!”

Unable to do anything more, a storm unlike any other bellowed in the distance, symbolic of the sea’s grief. The pain of letting go.

And so, she died, with her little blue dress and daisies braided in her long brown hair.

At dawn I sat atop the cliff, in a dress as blue as the sea and daisies braided in my hair. Canvas on my lap and paintbrush in my hand.

“I’ll paint you the way I did when I was alive, ” I called out to the wind

“Forgive me, it’s been 20 years after all.”

By Reyna Mary John

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Painting The Sea

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