By Isabelle Autumn
it’s a warm pei evening and i am seven
every pine that lines the road drips with honey yellow, the last shreds of sunlight spilling off their branches before the sun is swallowed whole
my lungs flood with red gasps of dust as the car flys down the dirt path, and i stick my head out the window like a dog, feasting on the earth that coats my tongue
we are going to see my dad’s aunts, Bonnie and Dot, (although they are not related i am reminded)
they live in a white cottage perched on the oceanside, in a meadow carpeted with clovers that slopes down into clusters of dune grass. from their porch i can see piping plovers chatting brightly by the shore, pinpricks against the swell of the sea
Dot takes us up to our knees in water, skin crinkling above her cheeks as she smiles
with wrinkled hands she fearlessly scoops up squirming shells
clawed blurs of red and orange scrabble frantically against gravity, popping out to drink in their surroundings with wide eyes before darting inside
i sit in the water, unfazed by ribbons of seaweed that weave through my legs like shadowy creatures, and let the hermit crabs come to me
under the water, rid of hands, they scuttle blissfully, weaving past one another and over rocks, upturning the floor in grainy clouds
when my legs are heavy with sand and the sky is submerged in black, i am allowed to go inside and shower, be alone
indoors is encrusted with the scent of sea salt and linen. the silence is bright and exhilarating and i take to exploration
patchwork quilts blanket couch cushions, their coloured squares like blotches of land from an airplane window. strings of shells dangle beside a stained-glass lamp, which casts sunset hues against sagging bookshelves. towering piles of murder mystery books with blood-splattered covers teeter over the edges. in a display case sits figurines of bears (birthday bears, christmas bears) too breakable to touch
the kitchen sits drenched in painted shades of blue so vivid i could be wading through the sea again or on my towel against the sand, squinting at the sky
i walk through a single bedroom with two pink pillows to get to the shower, although I am almost certain my mom said to use the other bathroom
as the sand runs down my legs in streaks, choking the drain, something in the pit of my stomach churns inquisitively, and my head sears with questions of worry and wonder, of a single word so omnipotent i can’t bear to speak it
but i hear it in the windchimes that sway above the sun-stained porch swing, in the hummingbirds that guzzle from the red plastic feeder, interwoven in the quilts, rushing with the waves of their ocean and lapping at the shore, in whispers of crinkled laughter and the touch of a hand to another that no one sees as i let the crabs scuttle across my feet
today as i lay with her against my pillows, i dream of nothing but the serenity bursting from a life filled with windchimes and a single bedroom, of hermit crabs.
Isabelle Autumn is studying to be an elementary teacher in Newfoundland, but was born and raised in Nova Scotia. She aspires to one day write a novel, but absolutely loves writing poetry and short stories of nature and queerness. She is an avid shark advocate!
