That House by the Sea

It’s creepy how people think, the ocean isn’t a person.

I have to admit, since I can go wherever and whenever I want, I fall in love now and again, like that island in northern Japan where I can run into town and slide right through the middle of bright lights on warm summer evenings. Ah, I love it when the land is soft and welcoming. I confess, there is one place at the moment where I am being severely tested. A cape on the edge of north America where a mansion sits so close I can almost touch it, a house more beautiful than I can describe. It bothers me that after a long intimacy, I am now being ignored.

The family that house harbored was a beautiful story we shared, that house drew me close. I learned to care for that family and to know them well.

The father liked to play golf at sunrise every morning and sip his brandy by a driftwood fire every evening,

I grew to love the children and they loved my raging storms, the ships I sent sailing smoothly by, the gulls they teased with bread crumbs.

The children tripped up and down the stairs between the four floors,

And grew up playing on the balconies stacked like a tall wedding cake.

The mother talked to herself as she scrubbed sand from the stairs top to bottom every day while the servants clicked their tongues passing by.

I especially enjoyed the visit by a famous poet and the baby the eldest daughter harbored for a few weeks. Whenever that sweet girl entered me, our salt touched.

Today there is a “For sale “sign in front of the house standing silently in fog. The house is empty and there are no more stories.

In Japan our long time together planted so closely would have us married by now, but there is nothing between us. The house ignores me.

It is dangerous to hurt me, and I am very angry like when I took the mother swimming into me with her sour tears and outstretched arms.

I rule a world that can swallow all the people who live on land. It is dangerous to hurt me, even in the slightest.

I loved that house, but it has closed its doors to me. It should know that I am very dangerous when angry.


Joan Eyles Johnson lives in the San Bernardino National Forest, in a cabin a mile above the ocean in Southern California where she writes plays, poems, and short stories.

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