(A response to a photo prompt: Chair, water, shore and ocean HD Photo by Tom van Hoogstraten)
The Empty Chair
I love the sound of the wet gravel as I place my chair carefully onto the beach. I hold its smooth wooden top for a moment, balancing its weight, knowing that any sudden movement will cause it to lurch into the cold waves. Cold waves that creep forward with a strange hissing sound, stealthily tumbling small smooth pebbles like a crowd of schoolchildren playing Grandmother’s footsteps. Almost touching. Before running shyly backwards to wait for the next turn. I don’t want the chair to get wet.
I make a decision. This is the place. I push down quickly, planting its legs as if their wood would take root. I hear a satisfying crunch; like the inside-my-ear crunch that I hear if I grind my teeth. I move my weight to the four corners of the chair, testing the stability, testing the tilt. Yes, that’s good. The pebbles glint in the fading sunlight. From a distance they had appeared as one colour; a dirty beige colour. But close up I can see their glimmering wetness, can discern the orange and gold and yellow and white and black. Tiny multi-coloured jewels that cling together, cling to the legs of the chair, cling to my shoes.
Shoes? Why am I wearing shoes on the beach? Surely shoes are for cold days, for town days. Surely on the beach I should be wearing sandals with criss-crossed laces. Or flip flops with plastic flowers and a hard plastic tube that rubs and cuts the soft skin between my big toe and its smaller neighbour. Or better still, why aren’t I barefoot? Wincing over the sharper stones but loving the feel of them sticking and falling, sticking and falling from my damp skin. But no. These shoes are black and buckled up sharply. I remember my Mother calling them Mary-Jane shoes. I have no idea where Mary-Jane is. Maybe she will come and ask for her shoes back.
I hear Mary-Jane’s whisper in the sound of the sea and shingle. I strain to hear the words, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. I strain my eyes and look for her appearing along the long beach, but I can’t make out the shape of anyone coming towards me. I think I am alone. I feel like I am alone. Just. Now.
Breathe. There is something special about the smell of the sea. A mixture of salt and sand and seaweed. And a faint whiff of Nivea sun lotion. Or did I imagine the last bit? That was always the smell of our childhood days on the beach. We would be slathered in white lotion that seemed to attract every stray fly and grain of sand. Within a few moments our arms and legs would resemble sandpaper. Annoyed, our mother would rush to brush off the sand with a towel, rubbing and cursing and flicking and tutting. Tiny specks of sand flying off our arms and into our eyes. Rubbing the rest further and further into the skin on our arms; scratching and leaving tiny red trails that took days to fade away. The Nivea smell lingers with the scratches. I breathe in harder, trying to capture that familiar scent, but it’s gone. Whisked away by the breeze that seems to have got quicker in the time I have been standing here holding onto this chair.
How long have I been standing here? The sun has dipped lower and is kissing the tops of the waves. The light is starting to fade, and the pebbles are losing their energy. I can still make out the waves as they continue to edge towards the chair. I consider moving it but instead I remain where I am. I wonder how long it will take for the waves to reach the polished wood, to start its wet rise. I wonder how long it will take for the waves to reach the seat of the chair, to flow over its woven top. I wonder how long it will take for the waves to tug the legs free of the pebbles and rush backwards, backwards out into the wide, open sea. I wonder if I should sit on the chair.
I keep my hands on the curved wood, gently rocking and feeling the stones shift under my feet. I don’t know this chair. I don’t know who put it there. Maybe it was Mary-Jane.
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