The island

I remember you in the Spring
Once a year you would come to our island
I remember watching you from the pier as the boat slowly approached
Embracing you as you stepped onto the deck
The smell of you
Then you would run out with the children
They love you so much
Dancing about in circles
Chanting a hundred chants and songs
Your arrival marked the beginning of warm air
Warm rain
Flowers
The beginning of longer days

After one of your stories to the children
We would put them to sleep
Then you would tell us of your journeys out in the world
It felt as though you were speaking to each of us individually
Long into the night we would talk
Sipping cider, wine or coffee
I remember sitting up in the loft with you and the others
Listening to the strong winds of a spring squall

The children are growing up so fast
Already they go about their daily duties almost wholly unsupervised
One by one the other young adults take journeys out into the world
Returning with stories of their own
Slowly, piece by piece, I feel compelled to leave the island
There’s something missing though
Something I cannot place as I press my hand to my breast
Trying to listen to what my heart has to say
I must wait
Wait until the spring

As you step off the boat onto the pier, you stop before me
I raise my eyebrows but you simply stare
An enigmatic smile on your face
In your hand is a flower, one not found on the island
You slowly raise it and tuck it into my hair by my ear
I feel as though I am glowing
You step forward and embrace me as you never have before
A slow, increasing pressure
You inhale through your nose, pressed against my hair
As you disengage me, you take my hand and walk up the pier
The children greet you with much enthusiasm
I’m distracted by the touch of your hand in mine
Much older now, they slap hands and give greetings they’ve learned from the others
Sooner or later, I think, they too will leave the island

After dinner, the children stay awake
There are fewer stories now and more questions of cities and cultures
The children are bright and attentive, always with clever insights
I examine each one of them growing into their own unique character
Then you do a strange thing
While you are talking, you get up and make the coffee
Some of the children are already drinking it
You serve cider to those who ask for it
Then come back and sit on the floor by my feet
I think back on the afternoon and dinner and realise you had stayed close to me always

Eventually the children get up to spend time by themselves
Each one full of new ideas to discuss
The other adults retire, and you and I are left alone
— Shall we walk?
– Of-course
You take my hand and we leave the main house
Out on the beach the sand is cool
The moon and the stars are reflected in the sea
The shape of the island slopes up to a low mountain
Trees sway in the warm spring breeze
The taste of summer in the night
I turn to look at your profile in the moonlight
Striking and beautiful
– How I’ve missed you, Tomaas.
— And I you, Sarah.
You inhale deeply
Exhale
— I’ve seen a great many things this past year, Sarah.
– I imagine you have.
— Different than the usual things though.
There is something in your voice
Concern? Fatigue?
— It has been a very difficult year for me.
I stay silent
— I thought of you often. And the island.
My own exhale
— There are worse places in the world.
Pause
— Much worse.
In the moonlight I can barely make out the shadow of your eyes
I want to see what they’ve seen
I want to stay like this, holding your hand, and share your burden
The wind begins to whip about
— We’d better head inside. Shall we?
You lead me back towards the house

Up in the loft you put on some music
— How long since you danced, Sarah?
I smile at you
– Too long! I don’t know if I could…
— Oh of-course you can. Come, it’s slow enough.
For a while your worry seems to be gone, though it lingers in the shadows of your face in the dim light of the loft
As the moments go by, we seem to move slower and slower
Move closer and closer together
— Oh how I’ve missed you, Sarah of the island.
– And I you, Tomaas of the big wide world.
The music stops
We sway together, almost in place
I lift my face
Lips to your jaw and kiss your neck
Your turn your head to kiss my temple
Slowly, slowly we move towards each-other
Then our mouths meet

We stand and stare

Outside the violent spring winds rock the house
The sound of thick wooden beams groaning and knocking quietly against each-other
— I’m sorry, I’m suddenly very tired – can I sit down?
– Of-course.
You sit on a pile of cushions, then extend an arm to me
I touch your hand with my fingers, turn and sit in your arms
I slowly rub my fingers across your legs by my side
You reach and turn the lamp off
The loft turns to shadows in the moonlight
The sound of the wind
— I was thinking of staying.
I say nothing
— Here, with you on the island.
Inhale
– I was thinking of leaving,
Pause
– with you, after the summer.
Pause
— Really?
– Yes. I want to see your world. Touch it. Taste it.
— It isn’t all pleasant.
– No, but it is all yours. I don’t want to see it with anyone else.
Pause
Our slow touches on each-other’s bodies
I relax back against you
– I want to be with you, Tom, because I realise that I love you.
It comes so easy
I feel so comfortable
— That is exactly why I wanted to stay. I don’t know if I could face the world right now without you.
– But if you had me with you?
I turn in your arms to look at you in the gloom
— Who knows. I may just go back.
I smile at you, though you may not see it.
I feel your lips on my nose
Once again we kiss
I settle again into your arms and you rock me gently
We listen to the warm spring winds