ORIGINS: It’s a far cry from a beach, but sea lions can’t be choosers. Hair can be wavy too, and if you look at number 6, you will see row after row of sea lions sticking their heads out of the water.
And the old-fashioned telephones are there because most cries go unheard.
It could be worse, much, much worse. I could be a sea lion on a crowded beach. The air could be overflowing with wails, and there could be waves crashing close to my ears, filling the cracks between one breath and the next. Noise. So much loneliness. But at least I have an old-fashioned telephone, and I can pretend. There is silence on the other side. No one cares. But this telephone has a coiled cord, and I can pretend that it leads somewhere. To someone. It’s like getting lost in a spiral maze. I can pretend that there is a connection. Because I am not a sea lion. I have silence on my side. Instead of a thousand undeniable wails, crushing my heart and any lie I could try to tell myself.
If you are going to leave no matter what, the least you could do is bring me something other than fish back. Something that would make the wait bearable. I don’t feel lonely when you are gone. I don’t feel forsaken. Nor do I feel the need to echo those wails, adding to the noise. But I wish I had an antique telephone, and I guess that does make me a child. It’s not that I want to reach you when you are out of sight. I could have written my wish on the sand, before you left, and I can’t think of anything else I would like to say to you. But it would be nice to have you twisted around my little finger, like a telephone cord. It would be nice to have you grant my wish. Lightning, instead of fish. Because I don’t want to echo the loneliness of any other sea lion. I just want to roar. Thunderously. Above all this noise.
What are you still doing here? Don’t you have fish to catch? You already know the sound of my voice by heart, there is no point in memorizing my face. If this beach has taught me anything, it’s that there are almost as many sea lions as grains of sand, and outward appearances are not worth taking note of. You say that you know my heart, that we are bound by love, and we have a telephone. So, just go. Swim beyond the horizon. Uncoil this cord. Stretch it to the limit, and just give me a call if you ever miss me. Have some faith. My voice won’t change overnight. Maybe your home won’t be waiting for you where you left it, but the word love will always be yours to define.
I hate this beach. It’s no wonder all the broken waves I have seen have recoiled from it. I can’t wait to leave. To put as much distance as possible between my lungs and this air filled with cries. Hunger. Loneliness. I don’t want those things inside me. My lungs may not be white, but I have felt their roots, I have felt their branches, and I know what pencils are made of. Those cries have teeth, and every time I breathe, I can feel them sharpening what you, and countless other sea lions, left behind. I don’t want to lose sight of my name. I don’t want to be trapped in four walls written to within an inch of their life. Loneliness. Hunger. Those words can’t be all there is to me. So, when I finally drag myself into the sea, I will make sure to cut all ties. I will never call you. And I will have nothing to fear. Because all you ever did was return my calls.