The Ferris wheel was old, crusted over with the saltiness that comes from being by the sea. That morning the radio told us that a monsoon was coming, so you covered up the rusted iron with your chapped hands, praying that it wouldn’t be the last time. Birds resting within its ribs rustle their feathers, restless but afraid.
At night, the ocean is a monster of a being, roaring and swallowing the pier whole. I can hear it creaking and moaning outside, the wind whistling through its skeleton. I asked you, in the flickering amber light, what we would do if it fell. You told me to shut my mouth and drink my soup, bitter and watery as it was. I tell you that this preoccupation is a disease. It eats away at us like the rust eats away its bones outside.
For the briefest moment, the sea quiets, and I observe your rigid face, outlined by the shadows. You tell me that the first time you sat in its carriage, your father told you that one day you would inherit this place. That day was the happiest of your life. That day, you were the prince of a country. Was obligation your only reason for staying, I muse.
No not obligation, you grind out, frustrated. Not obligation not love not fear kept you here, you explain.
Then, what is it, I ask out of a strange fascination. You are as silent as the sea on calm mornings. Daybreaks I have seen too many of.
I tell you the story of an old oak tree I used to keep in my back yard. Its roots had dried out but it kept on stubbornly drinking in the morning dew condensed on its crinkled leaves.
You croak to me bitterly that I should have just put it out of its misery. I look at you, and our eyes meet as the clanging of brittle metal is heard outside, a tower of rotted iron collapsing to the ground.
I did, I whisper to you.