I sat on the wiry grass, looking out at the sea, hoping its blue warmth could just sweep me up and whisk me away. There was heat in the sun, but it was accompanied – always – by a refreshing sea breeze.
I pulled my legs in tighter to my chest in an effort to keep out the cold. Maybe it wasn’t the best day to wear shorts. Dad had told me not to, but we were going to the beach. I wasn’t going to not wear shorts. Everyone else was in the car eating – Mum, of course, had brought her own picnic.
But I’d wanted to stay out a little while longer, not really to say any final goodbyes, but more so to just soak up the moment. The sound of the sea. The breeze pulling at my T-shirt. The feeling of the sun on my face. The smell of the air that belonged only in this corner of the world. This was my idea of heaven, and I wanted to remember it. I wanted to bottle up this feeling, this place, and then release it whenever I could and let this memory wash over me as clear and smooth as the tide.
Who knew when I’d be here again and feel this calm again. It would be a few months, for sure. Maybe the Christmas holidays, but then I would be coming back to a different beauty. No sun and definitely no shorts. Although, in all honesty, this place didn’t need the sun to be breathtaking. The sun just added to it.
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I looked around at the graves, wondering what connected the people resting here to this island. Maybe they’d grown up surrounded by its unwavering beauty, or maybe they just loved it so much they chose to make it their final home. There were a thousand stories in this graveyard, and I was only intertwined in one of them. Whatever their story was, it had led them somewhere gentle. It felt like everything came full circle here – the Irish name for Omey, Iomaí, literally translates to “resting place”.
I heard Dad calling me back to the car, back to reality. I took a final look around and touched the headstone. “Bye”, I whispered. I made my way back to the car and we drove across the strand to the mainland. I was leaving my sanctuary for now, but I knew this wasn’t goodbye – I would feel the pull of the island soon enough, drawing me back.
This story was published in The Irish Times Fighting Words magazine, a collection of stories, poems and essays by young and international writers
