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AN ISLANDER REMEMBERS THE SEA By JACQUELINE MEZEC Away from the sea she's finding she can't quite live without its rhythm of beginnings and endings like a lullaby cradling her. She misses speaking French like that too an undercurrent which she never noticed but that swam under everything. And she remembers how the murkiest weather was the best frame for the sea when clouds dropped and sky dissolved and briefly she felt heroic hunching into the wind scuttling along the shoreline like a crab searching for treasures thrown up by the storm a bottle perhaps from the Caribbean sculpted driftwood, blue china, bone. She misses being where everything is rounded, pebble-shaped as she daydreams beside a basket of dried vraic in an empty flat well above the high tide mark. Sometimes traffic murmurs to her like the sea and she wonders when the tide will turn.