@writersmonth day 3: seashell
She sells sea shells by the sea shore.
She's always sold sea shells by the sea shore.
Your mother would tell you of her. Warn you of her, in the same way her mother had.
In the same way her mother had. And theirs before them. Centuries of warning, to not buy the shells she sang songs of on the coast.
When you were younger, you'd ask why. Too young to question the non-answer. The simplified "Because I told you so." She didn't know the answer, you realised, when you were old enough to be able to think about it clearer.
You asked your aunt, and you'd always trusted her, but her answer was the same echoing warning.
Curiosity kills the cat, they'd always warn.
Satisfaction brought it back, you whispered to yourself as you walked to the coast one wet and rainy evening. Ignoring generations of threats and words of warning as you looked for the person they'd only ever called 'she'.
Perhaps this was simply what happened to the daughters of your family. You had your own child now, and you told them of she who sold the sea shells by the sea shore. A warning you didn't understand but there was the weight to pass the warning on.
They were old enough to carry on. They were the age you were when your mother suddenly dissapeared, when no one questioned where she'd gone. The same age your cousin was when your aunt disappeared.
You walked the coast. Looking for the stranger selling their wares.
The figure that greeted you was your mother.
She who sells sea shells by the sea shore. Her appearance unchanged, the same face you remembered the day she left. She didn't speak, but simply took a shell from the satchel she carried, passing the bag to you.
You weren't expecting her to simply walk into the ocean. But in a way, it was understood. This is what happened. This is your family.
This is a curse.
