The Stones Are Burning
The waves were slow, but persistent, giving us ample time to prepare for extinction.
For days, all I heard was the sound of waves crashing against the shore. Every night they woke me up. I sat up in the dark listening to them break, thinking they were getting closer. During the day I felt languorous, like I was floating. A sleepwalker with the sound of the waves pushing me forward. They seemed unchanging, like a giant white noise machine enclosing me. I kept thinking I was disappearing.
In my head, I saw the peninsula detaching. I was sure we were being carried off, or engulfed. With the incessant crashing, it only made sense that we would soon be underwater. The waves were slow, but persistent, giving us ample time to prepare for extinction.
I spent my days rearranging furniture: Old couch with palm trees against east wall, wooden table against the west; bamboo bureau south, all chairs north. Then, reverse; couch west, wooden table east. Or, all tables west piled vertically to stop the water when it came pouring in.
Arrangements got more and more complicated. I found ways to divide, classify, order, and reorder. Furniture with a rounded corner along the east wall. Bamboo beach chairs in the northwest quadrant. Drawers from the larger bureau stacked to seal the northern windows with lamps turned horizontally. Only straight-legged furniture in the living room. I ordered things by shape, color, height, width, age, texture. I sometimes fell asleep on the hardwood floor, a cool white glow flashing from my phone screen on the table.
One night, something came in through the window.
The waves had quieted. I was sitting high atop a group of chairs piled in the corner. From where I was perched, I heard a rustling in the bushes. Then the sound of metal being filed down.
In the dark, a flipper came through a patch of screen by the window. I tried to move, but couldn’t; in my mind I saw myself lifting phantom limbs, but in reality nothing worked. I could sense myself drifting. I fought against what was blanketing me like a huge sleep, but my body just got heavier and heavier.
A sea turtle climbed atop the chairs where I sat, paralyzed. It came close to my head. Its beak grazed the skin on my cheek as its fin ran across my chest. Whispering into my ear, it began: I thought you were sending a message. From where I was nesting on the beach I saw the blue-white glow of your phone flashing. I was laying eggs when I saw your faint signal through the curtained window. Don’t be embarrassed; I know you’re lonely. There’s something very important I want to discuss. Outside the water’s getting closer. It’s time to leave. I think we can help each other out.
