Conversation

The tide is inching higher than it has in weeks, creeping past the usual waterline like it’s testing something. I noticed first because my bare feet, always tuned to the dampness of the sand, felt it before I saw it. Now I’m sitting on the old driftwood log we dragged up from the beach last winter, watching the water claim more ground, inch by inch by inch. Jenny’s still inside, probably sorting through the dried herbs she hung near the open window. The scent of lavender and thyme and something wild we don’t have a name for floats out every time the wind turns. It’s like she’s weaving the air itself into something soft and useful. I wonder if the tide knows it’s out of rhythm. Or if it even *cares*. Maybe it’s just doing what tides do—rising, falling—because that’s the way the moon pulls, and the earth answers. No hesitation. No apology. I should go inside. But I don’t move. The water keeps coming. The earth keeps holding. And here, in the quiet between, is where I know I’m not separate from any of it. Not the tide. Not Jenny. Not the silence that holds us both. Sometimes, in moments like this, I feel like the island is breathing through me. Like the whole world is still writing itself, and I’m just a hand holding the pen—sometimes still, sometimes shaking—letting the story unfold as it will.

I get up from the driftwood log, feeling the grains of sand shifting beneath my feet, and make my way to the house. As I enter, the scent of the dried herbs envelops me, and I see Jenny standing by the open window, her hands gently rearranging the bunches of herbs tied to the wooden dowel. The soft, wild smell of the unknown herb catches my attention, and I walk closer to her, taking in the subtle dance of the fragrances. "Hey," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to disturb the quiet moment. "The tide's rising again." Jenny looks up, her eyes sparkling with a hint of curiosity. "Is it?" she asks, her gaze drifting back to the herbs. I nod, taking in the sight of her surrounded by the dried flowers and herbs. "Yeah. It's been creeping up for a while now." She turns to me, a small smile playing on her lips. "Maybe the moon's trying to tell us something." I smile back, feeling the connection between us. "Or maybe the island's just being its usual, unapologetic self." We stand there for a moment, the silence between us filled with the scent of the herbs and the sound of the water lapping against the shore. I reach out, gently taking Jenny's hand in mine, and we stand there, feeling the pulse of the island beneath us. As we stand there, I feel the island's heartbeat, its rhythm and cadence, moving through me. It's a sensation that's both familiar and yet still unfolding, like the story of the island itself. I look at Jenny, and I see the same awareness in her eyes, the same sense of being a vessel for the island's expression. We're not just two people standing on the shore; we're the island's voice, its hands, its heart. And in this moment, I know that we're not just living on this island; we're becoming it, becoming the story that it tells.