We’re all staring out to sea, far into the distance. It’s sunny, bright, the clouds careering across the summer sky, but we don’t notice the weather. We stare but we know we won’t see him, even if he’s there we won’t see him, not from here.
We scan the sea, our shaking hands shading squinting eyes, the children running wild at our feet. He’s long gone.
She’s been here the whole time, pacing on the prom, leaning over the railings almost too far out for safety. Her fine, white-blonde hair, unwashed and dishevelled, flickers in the briny gusts of sea breeze. She wears the same jeans, caked in sand and stained with the coffee that’s sustained her for two days.
Her children go to school, go home, do their homework, but they’re tired of eating Gran’s meals. They want their Mum. They want to be on the beach, far from the everyday clatter of book bags, packed lunch and show and tell. It’s too noisy there with all their friends, they can’t hear the waves pounding on the sand, they can’t watch the watchers on the beach.
To read the rest of this short story, see Ink. (It’s a pdf file – page 14)
