March/April 2024

(Stare the large window.) I stare out of the large window frosted in sunlight. The seagulls debate early in the morning, flying high over the tipped-up roofs. (Sunlight-seagulls debate in morning.) (High the tipped-up roofs.) My ears open, letting in the rushing sound of crashing, golden waves. I imagine them smacking themselves against the rocks. (Open letting in sound.) (Them smacking against.) One by one each bubbling valley opening to a crash of white thunder, stretching out across the crawling sand, licking up pebbles before dragging them back under the sea. (Up pebbles.) Stare the large window.

“Papa, why do you look so stern?” “Hannah—” “I just want this to turn—” “We can’t have this conversation this much.” My father pulls away at my gentle touch. At this, salty pools in my eyes begin to leak, I suddenly feel shy and meek. I turn my back and run outside. I run for somewhere else to hide. I run through my secret hedge tunnel, run so fast I almost stumble. Coming to the wood shed-house, I crawl to the corner like a tiny field mouse. I hug my knees, let the rivers run down my cheek, there’s a cut on my knee, I don’t care, I don’t speak. But my mind is racing: Why, why why is he so sad? What is so bad? Is all this because of me? Or does everyone feel like a chopped down tree?