LIBERATING EDUCATION 094 ST PATRICK’S COLLEGE STRATHFIELD LUMEN 2024 The salty breeze, full of the distinct scent of the sea, sweeps across the weathered planks of the wharf. He stands on the edge, staring at the spot where the sun paints the sky pink and orange as it sets below the water’s edge. His hands, roughened by work, grip the railing as if grounding him to the present. The rhythmic clapping of the waves against the dock provides a soothing soundtrack to the flow of his thoughts. The wharf is a place of memories, a tangible connection to a past that seems both distant and ever-present. He makes this pilgrimage regularly, drawn by an invisible force that draws his heart to the water. The wooden planks creak beneath his weight as he walks towards a small, weather-beaten bench at the edge of the pier. It’s a place that echoes with laughter, tales of the sea, and the warmth of a mother’s love. The air that surrounds it is thick with nostalgia. His eyes roam over the bay, a quiet place of beauty. He looks out, and a gentle smile catches his attention. The lines on her face tell a story of a life well-lived, of hardships weathered like the hulls of the boats bobbing in the bay. He can almost hear her voice, calling him by a name he has not heard in so long. “Remember when we used to sit here and watch the sail boats go by?” he mutters, as if he expects a response. His words hang in the air, unanswered. The quiet whistles of birds fills the air. He runs his hands along the rest of the bench seat, a relic of countless afternoons spent in quiet companionship. He closes his eyes, and for a moment, the sounds of seagulls and the distant pelicans transport him to a time when the world was simpler, and his mother’s presence was an anchor in an ever-changing world. Opening his eyes, he gazes out to the sky at the fading sunlight. A sailboat moves gracefully along the water, leaving small, insignificant trails of white foam in its wake. The man’s eyes start to water, with a mixture of longing and resignation. “I miss you,” he whispers, the words barely audible over the now raucous choir of seagulls, prying their next meal. As darkness descends, he remains seated, enveloped in memories that refuse to disappear. The bay has always been his own private oasis, shielding him from the reality of the outside world. He speaks to the ground, the cobblestones, with grass intertwined beneath each stone, and the sandstone, battered by relentless waves of water. It’s only when the moon appears, high in the sky, casting a silvery glow on the bay, that the truth appears to him. He rises from the chair, his silhouette framed by the shadow, cast from the lone streetlight. In a voice filled with sorrow, he says, “I’ll come back soon, Mom. I promise.” The words hang in the air, lingering like a whispered secret. As he steps out into the night, the wharf stands as a silent witness to a son’s pilgrimage to a place where love and loss converge. The bay, with its undulating waves, carries the weight of untold stories, stories of fun times and love. And in the solitude of that moment, he walks. He picks up his hands, worn by both hard work and time, leaving only the bench to the ghosts of a time when the wharf echoed with the laughter of a mother, now only a mere memory, in a grief-stricken mind. ENGLISH CREATIVE WRITING Hugo Matthews Year 11
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy MTI3ODI1