It's Still Life

Walking Westport

The sea breaks inches from where I stand. It’s a cannon’s rush on my ears. A tempest. The sound of purgatory. We’re walking fast along wet sand, the tide pushing us faster, the beach is paper-flat and straight into the west sky. We’re barefoot. Mum says it’s good for the arches of our feet. And it removes calluses. My sister complains of blisters. Mum ignores her nasal whines, concentrates on her own head-strong direction, walking like a postman — I’m uneasy; she reminds me of Dorothy’s wicked witch on a bicycle. My sister and I, we can’t keep up, and for the next two hours we chase after this tall, sinewy women, her grey hair a flag-woven mass from the wind and her mustard-brown cardigan flapping like a lose tongue behind her.