Ghosts of the Salt Water

It is 3:14 am. The house is holding its breath, and I am thinking about how we try to anchor things that were never meant to stay. We build structures of wood and iron, we name them, we paint them, and we pretend they are immune to the slow, hungry pull of the tide. But everything is moving. Even the things that look solid are just waiting for their turn to be unmade by the current. There is a specific kind of ache in watching something old survive, not because it is strong, but because it has learned how to bend without breaking. We are all just vessels drifting through a dark harbor, carrying the weight of years we didn’t ask for. I wonder if the wood remembers the forest, or if it only knows the salt now. Does it feel the distance between where it started and where it is currently drowning?

Leanne Lindsay has captured this quiet endurance in her image titled James Craig -150 Years. It reminds me that some things remain long after we have forgotten why they were built. Does the sight of it make you feel anchored, or does it make you want to drift away?