Every secret of a writer’s soul… is written large in his works…Virginia Woolf
Murky water laps against the narrow shoreline. Two shrubs flank a secluded opening to the sea.
Virginia stands by a hurricane damaged tree tracing the aged, carved three-inch letter “V”. Gently she runs her finger from top to bottom of the second “V”. She closes her eyes and remembers the one-inch scar on her cheek, the curve of her narrow lips, her gentle, searching eyes.
No matter how hard she has tried, she has never been able to thrust out the memory.
“Virginia, I adore you.”
Virginia’s hand drifts to her heart.
She opens her moist eyes.
A steamer moves slowly toward St. Ives. A familiar figure gazes toward the shore.
Virginia steps forward, pulls off her straw hat and waves.
The woman returns her greeting.
Behind Virginia, a diary and pen rests on a wooden bench.
A cool wind wafts from the south and blows through her graying hair. She looks down. A tiny crab scurries across the sand, then disappears into a hole.
Virginia settles her hat on her head, strolls to the bench and opens the diary entitled Summer, 1925.
Her pencil races across the page, faster and faster it moves until soon she no longer remembers the sea, the sky, St. Ives, the woman.
Moments later, she raises her face to the sun. Her wide eyes sparkle like miniature, effervescent jellyfish at dusk.