Tiny Stories

Two heads of hair extend from the bedding, one fair and glossy, the other darker. They lie a respectable distance apart, the back door of the van open to the rising sun, the rhythm of waves, the smell of salt. It is early morning, and I am walking with a woman I've just met, our conversation easy and relaxed as we stride it out along the waterfront. Later, much later, I discover she is a palliative care nurse, and I know our meeting is more than chance. The day before, I have taken the car, beach-combing my goal, convincing myself that walking on the stones is giving my calves and heart a workout to counter the shorter distance. There is evidence of an animal, an ivory hip tempting to take. I pick it up, hold the sea-smoothed bone in my hand, and gently place it back when it belongs. A teepee of skinny driftwood is above high tide, and tire marks illicitly cross the grass and the stones. Burnt logs, too big to move, sit high, high up. Here I discover charcoal, and carefully remove

I hear breathing. A slow, resonant sound that moves in synch to mine. It is warm huddled under several layers of blankets, and I know that outside it is icy cold, a frost covering the ground. Yet my curiosity gets the better of me and slowly I emerge, padding through the unfamiliar hallway, towards the living area. It is pitch black inside, as 4:30 a.m. is, and as I slide the heavy curtains aside, a gentle glow from the street lights glides into the room. Sliding and gliding, the door too is now open. And then I listen, to the inhalation, the exhalation. Slow and rhythmic. In and out. In and out. In. And out. The Norfolk pines are silhouetted along the waterfront, even at this early hour, and I know what my gut already told me. It is the sea, the sea. The waves, deliberately and endlessly, rolling onto the unseen stony beach just 500 metres away. This is my new normal, the reason The Tiny Celebrant has been quiet all these weeks. A sea change, a journey to another place. Looking for pe