“That’s where I grew up,” Grandpa used to say, pointing at the old painting on the living room wall. “All those years, growing up with five other siblings in one small room.” He’d then describe bits and pieces of his youth, jumping from subject to subject, all without taking his eyes off of the painting of the yellow wooden house.

We’d seen the house he grew up in— it wasn’t wooden, nor was it located on a hill in the middle of a forest. So every time he started talking about the house in the painting, we diverted our attention elsewhere and found subjects that we could all relate to, like Cousin Betty’s wedding or Uncle Roy’s new wife. As we all sat chatting around the coffee table after the weekly family dinners, he often stared at the yellow house, his chair pulled up close to the wall, his body leaning forward as though examining an organism under a microscope.

When Grandpa got sick, we had to take him to his bedroom and visit him there. Dad placed flowers at every corner of the room; Mom changed their water every day to keep them alive. My uncles and aunts bought him a flat-screen TV that had twice as many channels as the one we had at home. But Grandpa remained uninterested. The constant smile on his lips was gone. He wasn’t always aware of who was in the room or what new present he received, but he seemed well aware of the inescapable.

Weeks before his death, I managed to hang up the painting on the wall facing his bed and watched his face light up with joy at the sight of the house. “That’s where you grew up,” I told him before he had a chance to say it out loud. For the first time in months, he looked me straight in the eye, nodding. “Six brothers in one small room,” he added. He went on, and I sat there next to his bed, filling in the details that he’d told us before, helping him tell the whole story the way he wanted it to be heard. LS

Day becomes night. The benevolent moon, small but luminous in a backdrop of clear sky, replaces the unforgiving sun. And the stars, I haven't noticed them until now; they're a silent symphony of winking lights, dotting the sky like paint flicked from a celestial brush.

No sound permeates the darkness save for the water that laps at the sides of the raft. The slow undulating currents of the sea rock it left and right, back and forth. It's beginning to sag in the middle, and occasionally, the water crests over and spills into the raft, sliding down the yellow rubber and collecting in a cold, briny puddle by my bare feet.

The ration of a few drops of fresh water does little more than wet my cracked lips. There's two days' worth left in the bottle, maybe three. In the calm, there are a few moments when I think I hear a ship cutting through the water, but it's the wind playing tricks again.

There is nothing. Only the dark, with the moon, the stars, and the sea to keep it company. LS

I marveled at the wild natural coastal beauty as I hiked from the Cornish town of St. Ives. to the hamlet of Zennor. The rough path snaked high through the granite cliffs, around coves and inlets. In the surf a melodious Celtic voice, singing words I couldn’t fathom.

Eventually I arrived at the Bronze Age community of Zennor. Not long ago the Atlantic offered livelihood for fisherfolk. Time is still reckoned by the flood of the tides.

The Tinners Arms, built in 1200 AD, is the only pub. “Fish, Copper, Tin!”  a Cornish Anthem the regulars shouted as they downed Cornish ale drawn from wooden barrels.

Opposite this public-house sat St. Agnes church. Its roof, a capsized wooden boat’s hull, proper and shipshape.

Within that dimly lit place I spied an archaic carved wooden pew with a representation of a shapely Mermaid. I returned to the pub and I asked about her.

“Arrr that carvings be, about 600 years old,” says Dark Dick of Vellan Dreath, and introduces himself.

“What’s the story about the mermaid?” I asks

“Well, son the sea gives us life and takes life away too. Ya don’t sound too lubberly, and I like the cut of your jib, I’ll tell ye about our Mermaid and Matthew. At day’s end, when the boats returned with a good catch, the people climbed to the church and give thanks. The choir sang Evensong led by Mathew a handsome lad who’s voice pealed out sweeter than church bells.

One evening as boats bobbed at anchor and everybody was in church. Down in Zennor Cove, the waves parted and a strange being rose from the cove and slithered up on a rock.

A female sea creature, her top half a beautiful young woman but beneath her navel, was a long silvery fishtail.

This mermaid looked at her reflection in the quiet water. Combed out little crabs and seashells from her long wet golden hair. The sweet singing of Mathew’s voice wrapped her in a spell as she listened. 

The wind rose as the sun went down and Mathew’s song faded. The Mermaid slid back beneath the billows to her home.

Next evening she swam past the fishermen's boats. The easier to listen. So beautiful, she thought. When darkness descended into soundless shadows.
The following days ends she swam earlier and bolder, right up on the shore. And listened to Mathew, she marveled, What magical instrument makes such music? 

The Mermaid felt compelled to learn more about the man singing. Beheld the church, she took heed of the music pouring through its open doors. She yearned to peek inside to discover who sang so sweetly. Espied the tide ebbing, she was forced to return home or be stranded like a fish out of water. Dived into the receding waves, down to the cave where she lived with her father the king.
Described to Neptune the beautiful voice, his daughter upset the ancient being. He wagged a web finger and said,” Morveren my darling daughter, to listen is enough." 

“I must go, Father,” she declared, “for his music is magic.”

“Nay,” he shook seaweed dripping hair.

A perfect ocean pearl of a tear, fell from Morveren’s eye. “Then surely I will die from the wanting him.”

The King of the Oceans gasped; for a mermaid to cry is a thing unfathomable. 

"Go with care Morveren," he said. "Return by the rising tide, or you may never return at all.” Neptune gave her a gown crusted with pearls and ocean jewels to cover her silvery tail. Shiny golden tresses netted.

Slippery tail concealed under the exquisite frock made swishing up the path difficult. Grasped the trees branches lining the path helped her to the open church doors. Arrived at the closing hymn, and the congregation didn’t notice her. There stood handsome Mathew the man with the voice that had bewitched her.

Thereafter, Morveren slithered to the church. Listened and left as the last notes faded. A regular, until one evening she lingered spellbound too long listening to Mathew. A sigh escaped her. Mathew caught it, and beheld the mermaid.  Her eyes shone as she caught his look. Her net had fallen and he gaped at her gleaming golden hair. Struck silent by his instant love for her.

Scared Morveren turned and flip-flopped out the door. ”Wait!” Mathew called as he ran down the aisle in hot pursuit. Stunned the congregation dropped their hymn-books, and joined the chase.

Tangled in her skirts, Morveren and would have fallen but Mathew held her.

“Whoever ye be, stay.” AHe begged.

“I’m a sea creature and must return to the ocean.” 

“Then I will go with thee” pledged Mathew, as he spied the tip of her fish tail beneath her dress. 

Down to the ocean he carried her. The assembly ran after them and shouted,

“Hold back!”. Mathew was quick and strong and Morveren clever. Tore the precious sea jewels from her dress, flinging them about the foreshore. Greed overcame the villagers as they stopped to scoop up the gems.

The tide receded as Mathew with his lover plunged into the ocean until the rollers rolled over them.

They had gone to live in golden sand castles built far below the waves in a blue-green world. Never to be seen again.

The Zennor folk still hearken to Mathew as he sang love and sea songs to Morveren. In a voice that rose up soft and high if the day be fair, deep and low if King Neptune his father-in-law caused the waters to churn."

Dark Dick concluded, “Fisherfolk say Mathew sings to them that will listen.”

Later I swear, I caught a male voice in the rising wind as I trudged back to St. Ives that blustery day. LS

Dreams are like water, they flow over her soft and cool, slithering around her legs, caught in the sheets wrapped around her ankles. She smiles, it’s a good dream; a dream she hasn’t had in a while, the body beside her long and lithe. Bristles of hair graze her cheek and she settles into his side as an arm wraps around her, she doesn’t know what this is about, she’s not burning up with desire, just contentment and that’s unusual—unusual too that she feels so safe. That she wants to have this, this man wrapped around her, secure and warm.  She’s happy, wants it to last. But it’s a dream, not something she has, not something real.

Most nights, she just has the dog, softly snoring on the pillow beside her, and she wonders where her normal companion is in the dream. But only a little, she’s too content to worry much. The dreamlike state has her on a certain plane, a frame of mind where not much else is going on. The body beside her shifts again, reaching out for her, curling a forearm under her breasts—she smiles. Tucks her chin down and touches her lips to warm flesh, a chaste kiss. The room is warm—the slight breeze of the fan wafts over her, over them, only a little, only occasionally. She doesn’t know where she is, but she must be home. This must be her bed. She wouldn’t feel so safe otherwise.

She doesn’t know what to do with this, how to make it last—she tries to sleep. To sleep in her dream, in order to dream again, and idly wonders if you sleep in a dream, do you dream twice? Or thrice?

 She closes her eyes and drifts, trying to relax her mind, to keep from being ultra aware of the movements behind her. It’s difficult because he jerks back and forth.  Rolling away and then back into her as though he’s swimming or drowning. She is a life preserver, his lifeboat in a raging sea. He clings. Normally she hates that, remembering when she felt smothered, confined in the embrace of another. Not this time. This time, in the dream, she is comforted by the surrounding body. The feeling not confining but secure, the hold not too tight— just firm enough to be solid.

 “Are you okay?” The rough whisper comes just past her ear.

 “Yes,” she says and smiles again. She tries to sleep again. It does not work. She doesn’t mind, not really, because if she slept she would miss this, and she knows somehow, somewhere, she knows, she is already asleep so she doesn’t worry about not sleeping. She squirms again and is rewarded with a clutch back against him, another soft breath upon her ear. She drifts. If only she could wake up. Then all this would be real.  LS