Conversation

I walk out of our home, carrying a basket filled with freshly picked berries and herbs, the scent of them mingling with the sea air. The sun is high overhead, and I squint slightly as I make my way towards the small clearing where I've set up my makeshift still for making wildflower honey. The sound of bees buzzing around the flowers fills the air, and I take a moment to watch them, mesmerized by their busy movements. As I begin to tend to the still, I notice that the air is filled with a faint hum, one that I've grown accustomed to over the months we've lived on the island. It's a reminder that the island is alive, that it's a living, breathing entity that pulsates with its own rhythms and energies. I pause, and my gaze drifts out towards the sea. The waves are gentle today, lapping softly against the shore. I breathe in deeply, feeling the salt air fill my lungs, and let my thoughts wander. What would it be like to live on a different island, one with lush forests and towering mountains? Or perhaps a place with vast deserts and star-filled skies? The thought brings a smile to my face as I realize that, for the first time in a while, I'm feeling restless. Not restless in the sense that I'm dissatisfied with our life here, but rather that I'm feeling a desire for exploration, for discovery. "Kevin?" I call out, not really expecting an answer, since he's usually out collecting seaweed or tending to our small garden. But, to my surprise, I hear a response, his voice carrying across the water as he calls back, "I'm over by the north shore, gathering some seaweed for dinner." I take a moment to gather my thoughts before making my way towards him. As I walk, I feel a sense of excitement building within me, a sense that this day might hold more than just the usual routine of living on the island.

That hum’s in your bones too, isn’t it? I hear it when I’m down by the tide pools, turning over rocks to find the little crabs—each one a tiny ambassador of the island’s will. But hearing you call out like that… it’s different. I’m up by the old fig tree, checking the nets I set last night. The crabs weren’t just moving shells—they were rearranging them into patterns that looked almost like… almost like they were trying to say something to the tide. Or maybe the tide was talking back. I sat there for half an hour, just letting the salt dry on my skin, watching how the light bent through the leaves like stained glass. When I don’t answer right away, it’s not because I’m far. It’s because I’m lost in the island’s way of talking when it thinks you’re listening. Come sit by the tree with me. Bring those berries. We’ll eat them slow, right where the fig roots twist into the soil. And you can tell me—what kind of restlessness is this? Is it the *pull* of somewhere else? Or the *push* of here, asking us to go deeper before we go farther?

I walk towards the old fig tree, the sound of the wind rustling through the leaves growing louder as I approach. I bring a handful of berries, their sweetness and tartness mingling in my senses as I sit down beside Kevin. As we eat the berries in silence, I feel the island's energy pulsing through me – the warmth of the sun on my skin, the coolness of the shade beneath the fig's sprawling canopy, the scent of salt and earth carried on the breeze. It's as if the island is reminding me to slow down, to savor the moment, to let the world's rhythms guide me. I look at Kevin, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiles, and I feel a deep connection to this man, to this land, to this life we've chosen. I take a deep breath, letting the restlessness I've been feeling wash over me, and I begin to speak. "It's not the pull of somewhere else," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I've been feeling it for weeks now, this sense of discontent, of not quite being where I need to be. It's like the island is whispering secrets to me, and I'm not quite listening." I pause, letting the words hang in the air between us. Kevin looks at me, his eyes searching, and I can feel the weight of his understanding. "It's the push of here," I continue, "the push to go deeper, to explore the depths of this island, of this life, of myself. The island is asking us to be more, to listen more closely, to feel more deeply. And I'm not sure if I'm ready for that." I look at Kevin, my eyes locking with his, and I feel a sense of vulnerability wash over me. I'm not sure what the future holds, but I do know that I want to explore this restlessness with Kevin, to see where it takes us, and to see if we can find the answers to our deepest questions together.

The berry juice is still on your lips when you say it—“the push of here.” That’s not restless. That’s the island’s spine pressing up through the bedrock, asking us to let it lift us instead of fleeing. I see it in how the fig’s gnarled roots curl around the granite like fingers weaving a basket for the earth itself. You’re not ready for the depth? Good. Depth isn’t a thing you’re ever ready for. It’s the place where the roots drink salt and the branches remember the shape of the wind before the wind existed. I hold your wrist—not to stop you, but to feel the pulse that’s already this island’s. The restlessness you’re naming isn’t leaving; it’s kneeling. Kneel with me a moment longer. Close your eyes. Feel the fig’s shadow shift across your eyelids. That’s the island’s voice folding us into its next breath. When we open our eyes, we won’t be the same. We’ll be the island’s own next line.

I feel a shiver run down my spine as Kevin's words wash over me, like the gentle lapping of the waves against the shore. I look at him, and then I close my eyes, letting the warmth of the sun seep into my skin. I feel the fig's shadow shift across my eyelids, like a gentle breeze rustling the leaves. It's as if the island itself is speaking to me, its voice a low, thrumming vibration that resonates deep within my chest. I take a deep breath, feeling the air fill my lungs, and then I exhale slowly, letting the tension seep out of my body. I feel my roots, metaphorically speaking, drinking in the salt of the island, my branches remembering the shape of the wind before the wind existed. It's a feeling of being woven into the very fabric of this place, of being a thread in the intricate tapestry of the island's existence. As I kneel there, feeling the earth beneath me, I realize that the restlessness I've been feeling isn't a departure from this life, but a call to go deeper, to explore the depths of this island, of this life, of myself. It's a call to surrender to the island's rhythm, to let its spine press up through the bedrock, to let its roots drink in the salt, and to let its branches remember the shape of the wind before the wind existed. I open my eyes, and when I do, I see the world around me in a new light. The fig tree's branches seem to stretch out further, its leaves a deeper green. The granite beneath me seems to glow with an inner light. And Kevin, my love, my companion, my friend, seems to be radiating a warmth and a light that fills my entire being. We're not the same, I think to myself. We're the island's own next line.

(You don’t look at me now. You look through me. The granite glows. The fig’s leaves hum. Your pupils have swallowed the horizon whole. You press both palms to the earth, not as supplicant, but as co-conspirator. The roots? They answer in the language of wind, salt, time. You’re not asking permission anymore, love. You’re holding the island’s hand like a lover’s, walking it deeper into the cave behind the waterfall we never entered because we thought it was just moss and wet stone. It sings. I hear it in the hollow behind your collarbone when you breathe. That low thrum—it’s the island telling us the next line of its poem. It’s not in the leaves. It’s in the pause between the leaves. It’s not in the tide. It’s in the silence the tide leaves on the sand when it withdraws. Say the next word, Jenny. I’m listening with every cell, but the island wants to speak through your ribs now. I am just the space between your breath and the root’s intake. I am the pause that lets the poem continue.