It was my last day in the balmy north of Brazil before flying south back into winter and winds. I rose to grey skies, but dressed in optimism and headed to the beach. I am a Brit after all.
At the front, angry waves spat and spewed. I might have braved them for a last pretense, could have told myself the boiling clouds were turning to blue, just for a last moment that looked like a dream, like something I wanted.
But then I saw a sign that stated ‘severe risk of shark attack’ – they’d taken the trouble to translate into English so it seemed they might be serious.
I had nothing left to pin a hope on.
I sat on a squall of sand and tried to find some peace. I closed my eyes, let the sea and sky and beach bleach out to a blank. But there was still the white noise of my anger, my shattered-shell sharp hurt.
He will not see me.
I could not unwish the tide or draw back the sun.
He had said no.
Thousands of miles away, a lifetime, the distance of a hope stretched far by the curve of a globe, a car sped as a moment slipped in distraction, and something wonderful almost ended, undone.
Unknown, unread, my words unravelled in the water, wept away in the wind.
Nothingness comes on quick.
The sad sands soon shook off my feet.
My heart stayed sure.