The Edge of The World

We drove north to Lancelin with the windows down.

Us, three boys, Jackson, and our eclectic mix of music up loud.

The morning was still.

Perfect.

Not a hint of weather. Blue sky stretched clear and endless, like the promise of forever.

Salt and sunscreen.

Lime Whiteclaws in the sand.

We took the 4WD down by the shore and unfolded the double camp chair into the shallows, feet in the surf.

Westley fell asleep on my chest, his curls damp and salty.

The older boys and Jackson tore through the water, chasing waves and stingrays, shouting like the world was theirs and always would be.

He sat beside me, my legs draped across his lap. The sun shattered across the water in white, blinding fragments.

He smiled at me.

That soft, easy smile that made the world go quiet. My whole body softened. Time slipped.

For a while, there was nothing else.

Just the splash of the waves under our seat, the boys’ laughter, the warmth of his hand resting on my thigh.

It felt true.

A place I still return to.

A part of me will stay there forever.

Late in the afternoon the weather, and his mood, shifted like they were connected somehow.

Dramatic.

Unpredictable.

Undeniable.

The wind picked up. His face darkened. The air snapped with electricity.

By nightfall, the storm arrived.

Lightning split the sky open.

Thunder cracked so close it shook the van, rattled the ground, lit the dunes in violent white flashes.

Somewhere inland, fires burned.

And we fought.

The wind screamed outside.

The van shook.

The storm had no patience for compromise.

Words collided.

Silences hit harder.

And still, I believed.

We fell into bed like the storm pushed us there.

Rain slammed the roof.

Thunder rolled overhead.

The air was wild, unforgiving.

We made love like it mattered.

Like it could decide something.

Like if I gave enough, I could fix it all.

His sadness.

His distance.

The weather itself.

It felt true in that moment.

That faith, hope and love could hold anything together.

Afterwards, he lay beside me, skin warm, breath slowing, the storm easing outside.

“You’re my soul mate,” he whispered.

And I let myself believe it meant what I needed it to mean.

Back home, I painted.

In life, the day had been bright.

In my painting, it became sunset.

The light softened.

Deepened.

Gold and rose and something just beyond reach.

He’s still there in the picture.

Sitting at the edge of the world.

His back to me.

Facing the horizon.

Already gone.

Even then, I knew.

I was trying to build shelter.

But he was watching the weather.

And love, I learned, cannot keep a storm

from chasing the horizon.