Everything My Mother Taught Me

by Alice Hoffman

This was not the case with us.

People didn’t think I was twelve because of the look in my eyes. I looked wild, the kind of girl who would jump out a window or leap from the skiff that was bringing us to an island of rocks. I thought about doing so, but I held myself back.

The sea was a dangerous enemy, and we were surrounded by it. But I remembered what my father had told me. You could grow to love something so strong and elemental, but you’d have to value the beauty of it more than you did your own life.

Perhaps my blood wouldn’t freeze and I would peacefully drown. My father had said he’d seen men drown and when they were recovered each seemed to have found peace.

I felt a sort of joy I’d never felt before. I was so unaccustomed to such emotions it took some time before I realized I was happy. The sea was ever changing, ever interesting, and I felt closer to my father.

It was a spectacular and lonely landscape that I wished my father could see. I wished he could take off his shoes and climb over the rocks and wave to me and that he would be here in this world once again, if only for a few hours.

I closed my eyes and went through a list of everything I wished I could thank him for giving me. Patience, loyalty, trust, and hopefully, in time, kindness.