I can see my seal again. The air in my flat crawls a shiver up the sleeves of my nightshirt. The floorboards are patchy warm on my soft morning toes. I am waiting for the final gurgle of my coffee machine to spew its steamy starting airhorn. I want to sit at my desk but glance over my laptop instead to spot the black glassy river. Rippled like setting resin, it retains the memories of the midnight past, and she tells the story of all the December midnights I had missed while traveling far from home. As I stand to press my forehead on the looming tower window, I let the river tell me her tales.
Tiptoed and leaning at the windows ledge, the sidewalk view far below tells the storyboard of busy toy dolls, living out their under duvet ambitions. Tiny action figures creating their own misty Saturday adventures. The elder couple woven together with snuggled wool and linked arms, braving their ritual tea with biding icy steps. The purple shirted marathon man, underdressed for the damp and spilling steam from his head, hands and open mouth. The father-son-dog entanglement of leashes and pointings and double-backs and wonderments. The local homeless man with short scurried paces, a cigarette butt sizzling into one eye, arms full of deposit cans.
And through the composed bustle of a thawing gray Saturday, all along the banks of the River Liffey, stirs one tiny winking approval from the swirling water. A spiralling whirlpool opens like a portal in the darkness, and a black shiny head bounces softly to sneak a peek. Just a small sneak of a glance from the safe center of murky calm waters. A water faery to bless the morning and the day’s voyagers, nodding that all was flowing as it was meant to flow.
I spot the plump goddess, as she rolls over, and friskily bats her eyes. She is a fleeting phenomena in open waters begging to be hoisted with our eyes from the water’s membrane. To be seen, to be part of our busy world. I am certain the navy tracksuit jogger, with headphones over an oversized hoodie, would not notice. I watch as a couple laughing over their fancy coffees stride past giggling at each other’s tales from last night. I glance back at the lonesome seal and feel regret for the fading moment. I see the father-son-dog cluster double back, with the toddler pointing and laughing hysterically over a mangy pathetic seagull. And I am certain this regal Harbour Seal would blow his mind, enough to give the beast a purpose, perhaps for the boy to go home and draw seals for the rest of his days. I am so sure of the magical moment in the waiting, I begin to bang on my window, pointing like a mad man in my pajamas at the middle of the river. But no one hears me. And no one glances beyond the banks, beyond their prescribed Saturday morning rituals, beyond their scheduled unscheduled day.
Only me, lonesome me, watching from afar. Unprescribed like the very thing that I admired. The goddess of free swimming liberty. She isn’t asking for attention after all, is she? She cares not about being part of our world. She is content to swim and play, to pause and observe, and to swim again. And in my moment’s pause, I see that the thing I manifested is looking back, perhaps manifesting me. Spying each other from afar, just long enough for a sly wink of her long lashed eye.
My coffee machine is burping and wheezing for my attention. When my head returns to the river, she is gone. Dipped back into her swirling vortex of a hidden underworld. The world beyond ours, one of free play, spontaneity and simple grace. Secrets whispered to quiet minds.
Paul Carreo 