Whisper

It’s getting warmer, the winter cold slowly ebbs away and allows us to plant the seed of spring in our thoughts. (Sometimes when the wind is cold and I can see my breath coming out in white puffs, I go out to stand in front of the ocean and whisper forgiveness.) My fingertips are cold as I reach down to touch the waves. (They roll in and in and in and in, always and forever reaching for my fingers.)

The 6 am bus is empty and I sit there listening to the sound of my breathing (in and out) and the waves crashing on the shore, listening and listening and listening until I cannot tell them apart (you are only just now discovering your place in this earth.) As the bus slowly makes its way up the hill I can hear the wind howling (in the crevasses of these ancient hills, howling, howling, howling.)

The Bay is a jewel and Cardigan might be the closest thing to paradise in this part of the world (at least for me.) I walk and walk and walk and allow the wind to swirl around me, to undo my braid and run its cold fingers through my curly locks (Curly locks, curly locks, the wind whispers, wilt thou be mine?)  I let out a low whimper, a suppressed sob that has been trapped inside my ribcage for years and years and years. (Curly locks, curly locks, it whispers and wipes away the salty tears, wilt thou be mine?Yes, I whisper back, always. 

The sunshine peeks over the top of a cloud, the wind howls, the waves come rushing towards the shore and I stand there, looking down at the place that has given me a second chance (redemption, darling, for yourself) and I simply breathe and breathe and breathe.

I stand there, overlooking the town, surrounded by the cold air and I whisper, forgiveness. 

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