"Behind That Wall is the Sea" by Sarahana Shrestha

Behind That Wall Is the Sea

Behind that wall is the sea, trust me. Fishermen, swimmers, and any other old lover of the beach would rest their backs against the wall, smell the air of the other side through long, languorous breaths and listen to the waves, picturing the transformed color of their feet when they would first walk into the water, until, one day, all evidence of the sea vanished.

You used to tell me this from below as I climbed higher and higher up the trees, and it has annoyed me for ten thousand years, it has found its way to the middle of everything I do, making me stop to wonder if you were right. So here I am, back at the motherland, where there isn’t a thing that wasn’t left in a hurry. Dirty cups at the security checkpoint, clothes fraying and swaying on the clotheslines, and skeletons of what must have been two goats tied to a pole till the very end. 

It’s you I think of, your diminishing head when I looked at you from above, as I lift one foot up, then the other, and start to climb the wall. Our blood is the blood of those who once swam in that sea, you used to say, and I’d give anything to find you so that I could tell you you were right. Behind this wall is the sea, and it’s enclosed in glass. Who would do a thing like that?

sarahana shrestha

Sarahana Shrestha was born and raised in Kathmandu, Nepal. Her writing appears in La.Lit (Nepal), Literary Orphans, Work in Progress, and elsewhere. She is the co-founder of theshortform.com, and her photography can be found at sarahana.com. She lives with coyotes, wild turkey, and a woodworker near Kingston, New York.

Headshot: Courtesy of Sarahana Shrestha

Photo Credit: Staff