The Gift

The wind slaps across ocean waves. Palms bow in submission. This is where I come to think. Just me, water, and a few unfortunate creatures who happen to find my net.

The weather is as turbulent as my mind. Should I propose? What if she says, "no'"? I heft up my catch. What if she says, "yes"? As I seperate the fish and the pwentma, Why do people think throwing garbage overboard is okay? I find myself asking for a sign.

My people call me waikina pawt-wanal, Love's fool. She's young, beautiful, full of life and promise. She's also nearly full term with another man's child. Another fisherman, my brother. He set to the water two seasons past. The ocean was furious that day. He has not been spit back, if She swallowed him at all. Just a sign, please.

I lower my net again and start to clean my bounty. What's this? I pick out the oyster who has hidden away below the rainbow of scales. A fine dinner. I pry it open, parting the creature from its shell. As I carve the meat away, my knife reveals the oyster's gift, a beautiful smoked pearl. I study its hard iridescent sheen, both beautiful and strong. This is my sign.

I thank the wind that has guided my sail, and the tempess for her calm. I return now to my Love.

War never decides who is right, only who is left.