Flags
by Harriet Radford
Moments surface between us, like disturbances bubbling up in a pool. Our past lies sunk beneath, way down in the black unsettled darkness. When by chance a piece floats up, we stare at it, linger over it, rinse our hands in its ripples for as long as we can without it growing wings and flying away. Then we tie our weights to it and watch it sink, both a little nostalgic. Because even if more pieces rise, what good is that? The ship is sunk, its rudder turned and jammed, and we cannot raise it. That power is lost, the desire for it half-diminished, and in its place I’ve grown a fear, a fear of the creatures that lurk in the water, of the dark cavernous hull of our boat covered in grime and moss, cold to the skin, where the shadows of our ‘before’ hover. Where they touch.
So for now we sit on our respective shores, sifting sand through our fingers, playing a game of flags. Signaling to each other in a language we no longer understand.
Harriet Radford is an Australian writer living in California. A recovering lawyer, she is currently completing a Masters in Creative Writing and Literature at Harvard Extension School. When not writing (or reading), she can be found happily button mashing her way through various fantasy video games with her husband.