Prose: "Love like an Island"

Love like an Island

Olivia Smith, Class of 2022

Waves of injustice crash upon my shore—banks and terraces alike—with a force unmatched even by the sea. I am honored to have known you and grateful for the vulnerable ways we learned from one another: always curious to know what the other had seen.

I wanted to protect you, but I grew to understand your want of free thought outweighed my desire to control you.

I witnessed you hurt by my land: your palms torn open by uplifted reefs; your fingers shaking as they held steady a knife to pull thorns from your flesh; your ass branded by my abundant populations of box jellies; your ankles twisted by my uneven and unstable footing. I saw you hurting and wanted to wrap you in the chilled saltwater I have made home. Perhaps there you could find the peace I yearn for.

I saw your legs swing carefully as you sat perched on a ledge, just out of reach of the waters calmly waving hello. Your eyes slowly shut and stayed closed while I tried showing you how the ocean reflects the setting sun. I would hoist the gentle giant into the sky and hold it there daily if promised its last light would graze you high on your cheekbone, right where your cheeks are lifted to your eyes by your smile.

You wanted to know me. I saw the wonder with which you approached my cliffs, waters, and desert. With every note of my past, your admiration for my present burrowed into your own understanding of identity.

This was where our stories met. And for a while, my history became yours. And your entire creation sought to know me, even when it brought you pain. You rested in the doorway of a slave house. I screamed for someone—anyone—to see you and to resolve the upset in your chest. This hurt was built on my land, and I must bear this mark of how most think we abandoned the world which skillfully constructed suffering. From this doorway, you fixated on the way another family took pictures, smiling, while they placed one foot atop a stone reading white slave, as if they were reveling in the insanity of white oppression.

Your T-shirts began to pile up in the sink, heavy with the weight of sweat and salt. The clothesline in your kitchen sank from garments overdue for a proper wash, but dish soap seemed to suffice. You never once complained of the weather. It could be sunny all morning, and I could send a storm for fifteen minutes. You welcomed the rain. And the wind. And the shade.

You followed the birds when one appeared through your window, and you ran outside barefoot to see where it would disappear to. The rough limestone didn’t bother you. Nor the shells. Nor the rocks. It was all just ground to explore.

There was a cupboard outside, painted blue. A padlock opened it at eight in the morning and locked promptly at five. You grabbed the largest book, one of the few that were written in English. You kept it for a few days. You read peacefully at the end of the dock. This time, your eyes glued to the page rather than glued shut. You sat closer to the horizon, but you still didn’t see the sun fall. It was exceptionally graceful that night.

You watched as an older couple surfaced from a dive and heaved themselves (and their air tanks) up the ladder, a hot-spot for skin-irritating algae. You said hello, as always, and mitigated a free space to talk about life. Always so eager to share the experience of strangers. Even Dutch rang in you a reverence for the way the language flowed.

Our story does not end. Our paths have parted, but your feet cannot unwalk this Earth. I cannot unteach you patience, endurance, nor can you unlearn how to hold your breath long enough to push a stake into the sands below the water.

A few weeks was not long enough, and I sense your desire to return. You want to serve justice here. I need to remind you this is not your fight. You came and observed, but you cannot lead. This is something I have been fighting for, and it is one I will win. In time. All in time.