From here it was impossible to tell where the old school was—or any of the old places for that matter. The beach where we’d once plucked sea glass from the shore was lost in the early twenties, and the seafront stores were gone by ’25. Those places were lost in that rage of storms that came so hard and fast—each one building steam upon the last—that there was barely time to give them names before another came along. It gobbled them up, block by block, then spat the splinters to the sea.
Our little yellow bungalow, twelve blocks from the ocean. Then ten. Then two. And now…I used my oar to push us off the chimney.
“Where we gonna live?” Abebi asked.
“I dunno, baby girl.” I started to row. What did borders mean to an ocean? What was one man to a swelling sea?
I have taken the liberty of not being very literal about the location of this week’s prompt, and instead let the sight inspire me. When I plopped down, this is the first place I landed. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the sort of sight we’d start to see more and more.
Let’s hope not.