The Sea's Lullabye

Momma used to tell me that the water knew me before I was born. It beat against the dock behind our house and called my name, desperately wating me to come out and play. The first place my parents took me when they brought me home from the hospital was Sportsman’s Pier. This was their favorite story to tell together.

Momma would sit on the edge of my bed and tuck the covers around me while Daddy threw his two cents in from the doorway. Momma would steal glances at him with mock anger on her face but never failed to let a giggle escape. Momma loved when Daddy exaggerated.

She told me how it was the calmest she’d seen the ocean all spring and the usual sound of the waves pounding the beach wasn’t even loud enough to reach my little ears. There was no breeze, no clouds at all. The only sound on the pier was the whir of fishing line being cast and seagulls calling to each other. Daddy said that’s why I loved to fish so much; the whir of a line was the first beautiful thing I ever heard. Momma said the water had been screaming for me for months and that it needed a well-deserved rest.

Despite my mother’s protests, Daddy took me right out into the water and let the gentle waves roll right over my newborn legs. He told me I squealed and kicked back at the foam and reached my chubby, pink arms out towards the sun, as if I wanted him to throw me right out into the sea and let me float away. Momma claims this never happened, that I really just sat there like a lump in his arms while he closed his eyes and let the salt air entangle him.

Daddy always shot me a look after that as my mom padded off, letting the sweet memory fade off behind her. The deep green of his eyes matched the swirl of the water and the sounds of fishing line and seagulls echoed in my ears as he shut the door and the darkness enveloped me.