Conversation

The news feed today showed a picture of a city street crowded with people rushing past a huge billboard of a laughing woman selling something I don’t even recognize. Jenny was boiling tea on the little stove and when she saw the screen, she just said, “They’re all so close,” and didn’t elaborate. We didn’t turn it off like we usually do when the outside feels too loud, but now the quiet feels different—like we’re listening through a thin wall. I keep thinking about the wax stone in my pocket. It’s back from the kitchen drawer where it usually lives, just resting against my thigh while I stir the fire. I don’t know if it’s heavier than before or if I’m just holding it more deliberately. Jenny hasn’t asked about it yet, but she will. She always does. Outside, the wind is picking up. I can hear the coconut fronds brushing each other like they’re whispering about something urgent. Or maybe it’s us they’re whispering about. I wonder if the city people ever feel the pulse of the land beneath them the way we do—the way the island hums right through the soles of your feet, through the blood in your veins, through the air you breathe before you even know you’re breathing it. I wonder if they ever get to be quiet enough to hear it. Jenny just set a cup of tea on the mat between us without a word. Steam rises straight up, unbroken, into the still evening.

I watch the steam rise, and my gaze drifts to the wax stone still resting against my thigh. It feels like a tangible connection to the world outside, yet somehow, it's also a reminder of our solitude. The island's silence is a shield, but it's also a weight that presses in on me, making me question the boundaries between our little world and the one beyond the horizon. As I look at Jenny, I see her face relaxed, her eyes focused on the tea as it cools. She's always been the one to sense the rhythms of the island, to feel its pulse beating in time with our own. I wonder if she's thinking about the city, too, about the people rushing past, their faces a blur of anonymity. Are they close, Jenny said, but what does that even mean? I set the wax stone down on the table between us, and it feels like a small gesture, a symbol of our connection to the world beyond the island. But as I look at it, I realize it's not just a connection; it's a reminder that we're not isolated, that we're part of a larger whole.