The oar slipped through blue-silver. Firm and with purpose. Her soul laid naked amongst the virgin trees. Once so barren, she was again full.
Traffic jam sounds, now distant, once blackened her mind. Horns, cacophony. To survive the audio menace, she closed confused channels. Blocked, shut down. Like dammed canals, it was only time before they overflowed and broke banks. Perception-selected judgement skewed a world of which she now held a dimmer view. She sought light and to hear again. Not just to hear, but to listen. To think. Her spirit broke ranks.
Now in the morning, she could hear the watery sea-dog’s tongue as it slopped at the hull of the canoe, lapping at the now filled water bowl, once dry. The insane Nolan cockatoo called high in the eucalypt. Her ears charged, a raised champagne glass, they toasted the morning. She drew the salt-seasoned air into her nostrils. That specific smell. Stale sulphide. A soup of life and decay. She was now more a part of that.
The island, at first escape, now sanctuary. She enjoyed the paddle to the small general store across the passage. The journey took about half an hour. Once a week, bread, tea, sugar. Fruit and vegies. A measure of social contact. It was always best to cross in the morning as the wind often picked up in the afternoon.
She loaded precious bounty in her vessel, ready to return to her mother. The bow of the canoe slipped through the water as the body of that born lifeless once slipped from her body. The incorporeal apparition of past trauma always intruded on a journey. It transformed the venture into a spiritual, short-stay hospice bed. Bandages unwrapped to see how the wounds were healing. The mind smoothed old scars; she floated on her thoughts. A pilgrimage pegged out by channel markers.
A sharp bark called across the shore and welcomed her back. Abe, her soul companion, barked from the beach. He jumped into the canoe as she unloaded it.
“C’mon mate. Lunch time.”