The Past and Present Sea

When I was younger, my grandfather used to tell me that the color of the ocean once matched his eyes.

I stare out into the churning liquid expanse and think to myself… impossible.

My grandfather’s eyes were the color of antique jade. Not quite blue, and not quite green—a soft blend of the two, a color I rarely saw after he passed away. Sometimes, depending on the intensity of the surrounding light source, they would vary in hue. How I wish I had inherited those eyes... my mother’s genes had prevented that from happening, and it is with dark chocolate eyes that I look out across the waves.

Waves that, if anything, matched the color of my own eyes. For as long as I can remember, it has always been like this. The turbulent sea sends wave after wave crashing upon the shore, and then retreats them in a gradient of black, brown, and tawny beige. Deposits of coffee-colored grime slathered across the gritty sand show where the waves have extended their dirty fingers. 

A loud blast from the smoghorn nearly sends me toppling over the railing, and I rush back to the house, collecting my startled self along the way. Behind me, the polluted waves continue to pound relentlessly against the shore.