The Voice

“Who are you?”

The words echo in the waves as they flop onto the shore, briefly browning the sand before retreating back to the collective body of water. The fish continue their swimming, the palm trees their swaying, and the crabs their crawling. No one can identify where the voice comes from, or who she is addressing, but the birds sound their calls in response.

“Where am I?”

This time, the sound of beachgoers’ laughter fills the air, mixing with the saltwater to create a signature atmosphere; what a ridiculous question, they think, to ask where we are. Three famous hotel chains have monopolized the shoreline with seven resorts and counting, their floppy chairs painted different colors to mark the borders between sites. Technically, the birds know they are somewhere south, the people know they are somewhere in South (Central?) America, and the ocean knows that she is every possible where.

The question is left unanswered.

“Who are you? Where am I? Why are you doing this? Do you hear my cries?”

The questions lead to rumblings, and the sky darkens in response. Clouds cover the shining sun as grumbling people pack up their stuff, heading inside to escape the storm. The birds nestle in the trees; the fish descend into the sea. The waves rise to kiss the sky, yet still, no one grants the voice a reply.

“Little sister! Little sister!”

Carla Juárez, a woman just shy of thirty and overtly shy in every other sense, pauses to listen. Mr. Fleece had demanded she secure the folding chairs, that she anchor them firmly into the sand so not to lose them to the tempest’s pour. Abuelita had told tales of the Tempest in her youth, how she would attack in retaliation to earthly disgraces, and though young Carla headed her warnings with wide-eyed oaths, time has eroded her belief in unseen faces. But currently, a voice is calling, and though it’s a faint whisper to her ears, in her bones it screams loud and clear:

“Who are you?”

This time it is Carla who speaks, voice trembling as the first drop of rain hits her olive-toned skin. Thunder applauds her courage, and lightening strikes a sense of clarity into the air. The wind blows deeply, running through Carla’s hair, as the voice takes a breath and proceeds to declare:

“I am a breast upon Sophia’s floor

Wood and plastic erode my shore

I sink beneath the ocean’s lore

Retreating to the hidden core

My back is aching with the weight

From all the actions of the day

And with my rapidly changing sands

I’m losing sight of who I am.”

The birds wail in solidarity with the soliloquy proclaimed by their host as the trees bend backward in attempt to kiss her tired bones. Carla tightens her grip onto the silky chair as strands of her hair get caught in the holes between its flaps. An empty Aquafina bottle bonks her head, and she collapses to the ground, her heart filling with dread. The chair goes down with her, its white and red streaks shining brightly against the sky so bleak.

Untangling herself from the plastic, she stands; looking up to the sky, she speaks to the land:

“Pachamama—Sophia—perdóname.”

Her voice cracks, and the rain starts to pour, unleashing the pain the land has stored. And as the storm continues to roar, unbridled, the voice cries out for more:

“Little sister! Little sister!

I am more than just hurt

If things are to change

I need more than just words.

Not borne out of fear

Of a Tempest’s wrath

But from genuine healing

Between us at last.”

And at once, she hears a crack, but no, it’s not the thunder, it’s not a clap. It’s a snap, the red and white unbecoming against the ocean’s blue, a shiny chair breaking into two. With a gasp of air, Carla runs toward the piece, not in the interest of Mr. Fleece, but rather taking a step toward peace, to keep the sands and shores of her island clean. With a strength she never knew she possessed, she runs and runs until she reaches the house of Juana Ramirez, who lives inland and has a knack for repurposing that which is left.

“Carlita, Carlita,” the old woman sighs. “Come in and wipe the tears from your eyes.”

“Can you make this beautiful, too?” she cries. “Even beyond it’s ugly roots?”

“She will cycle again,” she says in time. “Have another beginning, and another end.”

“But what about the pain it begets?”

“You can’t know this yet,” she pauses. “All you can do is take a deep breath, and day by day keep giving your best.”

The tempest recedes after a few hours pass. The birds reemerge from the trees, the fish rise up from the depths of the sea, and the water from the leaves splashes down onto the sand. The droplets are like salve to sore muscles, and the people stretch their legs as they walk toward the beach, ready to move right on as they do. Yet, as all of this happens, one thing remains true:

Though we may not always know where or who,

The voice is calling to us; she’s still calling to you.

As we live and receive her subtle clues,

May we listen and respond each time we can choose.