The Gulf of Lions

Like the entire city, even the birds in the magnolia tree outside the windows had been silenced, gagged, snuffed out. Suddenly fearful, Sophie hears her voice come out younger than she wants, needier, “What is it, Mama?” “Sophie, hold on.” Her mother is running past her to Iris, whose mouth is open like a big O. Iris is wandering along the side of the calanque now, leaning down and touching, ever so gently, the lavender plants, her hands cupping the blossoms when she bends her nose to each one, the scents teaching her something important about her life. That yarn would unravel and get wet as it touched the ocean, and finally, the parent or loved one back home would let go, and then the woman on the boat would roll up the wet yarn and take it with her, holding on forever to their connection, and a bit of Irish sea.