(Shipwreck: photo by Tabitha Bird)
Inside me there was a place I went with cupped hands. Words, the unformed black dots, dripping down my arms, oozing into the dry mouthed earth around be. Drops quickened their pace, impatient to be seen and held, to be known and placed on a page. My hands, brimming with the honey of everything I wanted to say carried the liquid letters best they knew how. Oh the happiness of doing something you know you were given to do. Only those who dare to bring out what is inside them can ever understand. Oh the ache to get the words set on paper. Day by day, between the hours of midnight and for always I typed.
How many times must I have returned to that place inside?
Past the point where dawn breaks dark?
Beyond lines of horizon and under corners that you can't see around?
Yes. Past all those times. Past all those hours. Everything should have continued. The words should have been a thing to be counted on like the moon drawing the tide.
Then it happened.
Inside me there is a place I go with cupped hands, but the words are lost. Shipwrecked. Beautiful only if you appreciate what is left and don't dwell on what was there.
I asked my friend, "Why do you come here?"
She turned to the coming sun and its dance across the arcs of waves. "You know Tab, I could photograph anything. Flowers. The whole bushland behind us. But I chose a shipwreck because it's still here. Against all odds, and even though it shouldn't be, it's still here. There's beauty in that."
I smiled. Yes. There's beauty in that.
And maybe I will go again to the place where words dripped down my arms. Maybe there is something left in me to write yet, because against all odds, and even though I should be, I am still here.
(For Meg, who knows lots about Shipwrecks and even more about being a friend)