If you must speak ill of another, do not speak it, write it in the sand near the water's edge
I had oatmeal for breakfast because I rolled a four.
It's the way I start every day, with a choice. I've had oatmeal three times this week, I don't know if that makes me lucky or healthy or both.
Every morning as the clock strikes eight I run to the water's edge and drop to my knees.
I wash the die with my eyes
closed and say your name in my mind's eye.
I am only allowed to say it once so if I get it wrong there are no second chances. I have learned to say it one small syllable at a time.
Sometimes when I say it I feel your breath on the back of my neck and I can hear you laugh as you fly through the sky with the clouds and the seagulls. On some days I get nothing. I'm just cold and wet and sometimes it feels like your name is one step ahead of me and already spoken before I get the chance to catch up with it.
Then I open my eyes and write everything I should be thankful for in the sand or the name of everybody who has ever hurt me or every bad thing that I have done recently - depending on whether I roll a 1, 2 or a 3.
Today I rolled a 1. I am thankful for breathing, for gravity, for the oatmeal.
Then I rolled a 5 and made my way back, knowing that the sea would do it's job and receive my words in it's own time. Whenever I get a 6 I have to wait and make sure it happens. That happened on Monday and it was pissing down.
I wrote this as part of this week's writing prompt over at Write on Edge Take a look, take part. Connect.