From His Own Table

I press the tips of my fingers to the side of my face, worry this scar that sometimes feels older than I am. A gift from my grandfather that I cannot return. It’s pulsing with questions because I haven’t been back here since I boarded a boat, followed the wind one night and never looked back until now.

The island hasn’t changed much, yet it looks every one of those 15 years I stayed away. The fish market that leads to my home is deserted. Once upon a time, you couldn't tell fisherman from fish-buyer- we all smelled the same. I stand in the middle, close my eyes and take a deep breath, as my lungs fill with air, my eyes sting with the weight of tears I didn't know was there. And my heart… my heart is heavy with things I haven't allowed myself to think about, a memory that only became heavier with each year. So I'm back to unburden myself. To bury a man I didn’t really know.

Trudging through the sand as I approach the door where my height was measured every 3 months, I can almost hear it now, how the door slammed behind me all those years ago- when I followed my fear and feet, not minding the blood from the side of my face, not able to see, just knowing if i stopped, I would end up like one of the fish from his own table.