My father’s hands as waves

(My) ‘Old Man of the Sea’ 

 

Part of a greater body of work I am on the cusp of… with writings unfolding, and words intertwined. 

 

Sea spray and weather worn, like the rocks tumbled in the oceans. Softened and storm sculpted. My dad has spoken to me… in riddle and in clarity… these last months. 

 

So grateful for all the years of my life he has guided. A beacon in my days. Ever showing me the way. Ever shining. Darkness lit and day times warmed. 

 

I have watched his hands as he has spoken, and they rest into one another. Sometimes tumultuous. Twisting. Sometimes soft as if calm seas. Surface glinting. Storytelling. They turn. 

 

Either way. They are his. They speak of his life.”

 

~ Jenna Martin Leitch 

 

I write most days. As I walk or sit at peace, words come to my mind. Sometimes thick and fast, sometimes in phrases. Sentences. Full paragraphs. 

 

They are conjured from a somewhere and I itch to get home. To keep them safe, and written down for keeps, in my journal. 

 

Mostly, recently the words have been things I’ve wanted to remember from moments spent with Dad. 

 

Things he’s said. I’ve thought. I’ve noticed or he’s mentioned. 

 

Stories of his now and of his then. Either way. They both feel quite fragile and momentary. I need them written, so as to keep them safe. 

 

To keep me safe in ways. It solidifies and makes real the feelings and the emotions that wax and wane, like the moon does also, and I realise we are all one and the same. 

 

I read back the words, not at the time, as I let them flow. But afterwards, days, or weeks even, and some just seem so visceral, real, felt. And I feel them again. 

 

Words work magic. We know that. I love that I can marry my words of my Dad, whilst typing on my Mum’s typewriter. Bringing them back together somehow. 

 

Waves rise and fall. The hammers of the keys hit the paper as so. The letters are imprinted. 

 

It is told. 

 

“Lost at sea, whilst safe on dry land”