Low Tide

The sky is grey; it is a cold November day. I look out at the sea; it

also is grey. Bold, breakers, batter, the sandstone cliffs. The

normally fearless, swooping, seagulls, have taken sanctuary high in

their nests. Not me though. I'm here just as I always was, waiting,

looking out over miles, and miles, of churning grey water. I sit and I

think, wondering when you might come back, wondering if you thought of us.

I'm getting wet now. Cold, fine, drizzle is falling, soaking me to the

skin. Do you remember that type? The sort you only get near the sea.

What is it they call it? Oh yes, I remember a sea fret. We bought

those nice red jackets, so it wouldn't get us wet on days like these,

do you remember? The children miss you. Anna is always asking. Ben

tries not to think.

Do you remember when we first came here before we had the children?

Just you and me; we were so in love. No money, no job, just a battered

mini, a desire to succeed, and each other: we were invincible. We were

alive, buzzing with the anticipation of our future. We set up the

business; the bank thought your ideas were sound, so did I then.

Within five years we had it all: lovely house, new car, holiday abroad

every year; not that we needed to leave this place, it was beautiful.

Then I got pregnant; do you remember? You were like a dog with two

tails; I had to bribe you not to tell everybody until I had gone past

three months. I loved you more then, than ever before, we were going

to be a family: complete. When Anna was born you were so proud, in

fact you were fantastic. Then, two years later, along came Ben a son;

our lives were blessed.

Our love for each other...

... middle of paper ...

...trong: like I used to be. I've really

come to say goodbye; we're moving. There was just enough money left

after everything was sold to buy a small, rundown cottage. It's not by

the sea, in fact quite the opposite; it's right at the heart of the

Midlands, about ten miles from Birmingham. You would have hated it;

I'm sure I'll love it.

Any way time to go, the children will be wondering where I am. You see

they can't come near the beach. You stole that joy from them too. They

can't come near the beach for fear of the memories invading their

young, sensitive minds. Therefore, when you selfishly ran away you

took more than yourself. They loved that boat. They remember, you see,

sailing just off the coast looking for those translucent, pink

jellyfish. Do you remember? We had such good times. Wasted: suicides

like that.