The wind was rough. I woke up. In the early dawn, the door rattled in the storm. My pain increased. I held on to the flimsy bed frame. A sweet summer’s day, the winds revved up in the hands of a novice driver. Five years of age. Another midmorning, some clouds had gathered. I opened the windows and a sudden gust of wind whipped my face as it passed through the hut. My hair blew wild over my face, veiling it in a mass of dark locks. I saw the layers of dark clouds in the distance; each layer, a different shade of gray. The daisies down the mountain danced in the ferocity of the winds. Yellow little souls pushing up and the bleeding blades of grass. There was a sudden knock on the door. A ship had wrecked off the peninsula.

Who’s at the door? Is it really you? My son? Have you come for my soul? The wooden door flung open. These crazy winds. My hut appears to be wrung out of its soil. The green mountains were dark and gray. Dark. Yes, pitched dark it was too, when my sixteen-year-old sailed away off to the edge of the peninsula. On a boat they sailed towards some faraway coral islands.

The mountains spring. The rains lashed out… My son, are you even alive? The ship drowned in that sea. Took away. My baby is no longer little. Down by the green valley, I see him running until he vanishes. Playing hide and seek. Don’t run to the ocean though. Come back. Oh, dear child. He’s right here. The ocean rises and falls. Boats passing through mountain ridges. Then it all falls apart. No boats. No ships, only the sounds of the raging seas.