Marta fingered the piece of sea glass, rolling it around in her palm. It was green, the type of green with some blue in it, so that it reflects the ocean and makes you think it has trapped the midday sun inside it. As she walked along the shores she was thinking to herself that despite the ruins, these places were still very much alive. She believed that places could also have palpable histories, and if one was only so inclined to be very still and listen, the words would flow like water. She knew she had seen this place before. Of course she had, she had been here many times on family road trips. It was where mamá y papá told her their ancestors had come from, centuries ago.
But it was more than that. She felt she knew this place, really knew it. She did not have to imagine what the stone structures looked like in their prime, for she could almost remember it. A scene played out in her head in which she was dressed in white and stood atop the tallest structure. She was not the focus of the attention, however. That was something else, some sort of ceremony going on. She watched from a dark corner inside the small room at the top. She wasn't supposed to be there.
But she couldn't leave now, she was captivated by the goings-on outside. Thousands of people on the ground had gathered to watch, dressed in their best, and all she could see was a sea of brightly colored fabrics and feathers. At the top of the structure, there were dancers, making some sort of tribute. It was mesmerizing to watch them as they swayed back and forth. Musicians played drums in the background.
Marta opened her eyes, astonished to see that the sun was now far into the western sky. How long had she been here? She must have been dreaming. Or remembering. The thought both chilled and excited her. She realized she was still holding the sea glass, practically rubbing it raw by now. She examined it closely. She could almost see her reflection in it, as if she were looking into the sea itself.
Now she could see herself, much older, sick. She was being tended to by a group of tender nurses. Everything was spoken in hushed tones, for they did not want to wake her. Time passed by, and then everything was quiet. The nurses came back and began to wash her body. They anointed it with oil and then wrapped her in lengths of beautiful colored cloth. They carried her out and laid her on the sand, where words were said by a holy man and many people gathered to watch the passing of their beloved from this world into the next. Once it was again quiet, she was carried by boat to the middle of the sea, where they laid her to rest among hundreds of white flowers.
She felt her body sink down, down, down, until it rested upon the ocean floor. After what seemed like an eternity, when the cloth had long ago been washed away and her skin and muscles and become detached floated away, her bones were all that was left. The tide slowly, gently wore them into a fine powder where it mixed with sand and became rocks and glass. This glass was a particularly bluish-green hue, and seemed as though the sunlight had been enveloped inside it.
As the years went by some of the glass made its way to the surface and got stuck in the sand at the edge of the tide. One day walking by this place,
something Marta didn't often do but had been drawn to do that day, she saw it shimmering in the sand and picked it up.
Again Marta opened her eyes. It was now nearly dark, but the piece of sea glass shimmered in the sunset and almost seemed to reflect the last glimpse of sunlight. She was silent for minutes before she dared take a breath. The sea was truly the keeper of all secrets and memories, old and new, and what she held was the heart of it, the heart of her own sea, her own heart. Marta slipped the glass into her pocket and stepped back from the tide. It was time to go home.
