I pull back on time, tug at it like a sailor wrestling with a stubborn anchor. I hand-over-hand. My knuckles wobble and threaten to bust loose from their thin blanket of skin. But fathom by fathom, I bring it back to the surface.
Sand and seashells and saltwater scatter on the stern. I sort through them all, all the things I missed. A green glass bottle, worn soft by the waves and the wind, holds a message. The distress call is four years old.
I did not know then who I was writing to. I did not know that I was writing to myself. And I did not know that by writing here, what I thought would become practice, would actually become prayer.
Christine Mandich captured the shot above.