The sky was the colour of Prince Edward Island clay.
Not wet clay, but clay after it had been moulded into undefinable shapes by little hands
and dried in the sun on a summer day.
Good thing it was evening, she thought, comforted, remembering the old saying her father
would repeat time and again when she was a child:
“Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in morning, sailor’s warning”.
She came here seldom.
The simple sounds of the sea and whistling wind that used to ground her
made her uneasy now, unsettled;
if she wanted to feel insignificant she could have stayed home in her condo in the city
where at least she had Netflix to keep her company.
At the edge of the shore she watched a sandpiper scurry along the beach.
They always looked so worried, running back and forth and in circles,
She always imagined they were mothers
looking for their lost babies,
into a neighbouring nest.
That’s because she knew how it felt
to lose a child.
Emerging from her reverie, she noticed the sky was no longer red and she could see the stars;
so many stars.
It took her breath away.