Ebb

Part of a series of postcard letters & poems

Boat on the Water, Oil on Canvas, Abdul Qader Al Rais, 1989. Postcard. Courtesy of the Department of Culture and Tourism — Abu Dhabi

Sometimes, writing is simply sitting with a feeling my body does not understand.

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Sending it down the skin, the largest organ ,as bumps form on the arms, shoulders wake up from fighting each other, forehead receives ripples from an invisible pebble. At this moment the ears fidget for the sound of the shore, but I am indoors. So they pretend they have not been stood up and act busy.

I’m not blind but want to be, because then I wouldn’t be looking at the postcard of a dhow on blue-water, mesmerized by the brush spots of the clouds , the play of cotton white and blue-grey , crushing me.

I can see it, the far horizon on my desk. The rocking dhow making it difficult to balance the pen on the page, pressing the elbow of the other hand a little tighter, just in case.

I’ll never be on that boat. I’ll never sail, just sea sick.

Now… I understand the feeling.