Plasma

Settling down on the grass, she looked at the ocean in front of her.

The tourists had all left, moved on to another site. She was alone for a few more hours. No one would bother her.

The Monument was behind her, though too far to cast any shadows. A tall, sinewy spiral that she never really understood, except for the fact that it was art, and it was pretty and complicated.

She'd stopped understanding artists. She didn't think she ever could.

Two years ago she came here with a group of friends and immediately fell in love with the spot. Looking at the sunset, the feeling of calm the mild ocean breeze gave her, she imagined herself getting married here.

Saying her vows in the little church in the island, then moving on right to the spot where was sitting for the reception. Tables right by atrium near the ornament, where guests could dance and be merry.

Her friend thought she was nuts.

Sunset was a bad time to get married. And people had died in this very place. Sixty years ago the whole island was bathed in blood.

It wasn't a place for celebration.

She wasn't friends with that girl anymore, and not because of what she said. It was just one of those things, those complications you got growing up. Becoming two different adults in a fast paced world.

But the death of the friendship didn't sour her visions of this place.

She wondered if someone had died right where she was sitting with her laptop. If someone had looked at the ocean front, and longed for escape from this island. Longed for home.

She touched the prickly grass beneath her and closed her eyes. Saying a little prayer to whomever stood on this spot six decades ago, having their last look at the water and the sky.

What she was prayer for, she didn't know. She couldn't pray for them to live.

She prayed for good life instead. For her, for him, she didn't know.