You can tell the type of creature she used to be from the smell of sea breeze in her hair and those kelp rags she calls clothing.
She will still dance on the waves, every full moon, liquid fingers reaching out to get her, to taint her. To mark her as their own.
Her folks want to have her back just as much as we do, the lovely Pearl, glistening on my pillow. She refuses to choose a side.
If she’ll eat fish, she will belong to us, to our world, ever after. Which is why she claims to be a vegetarian.
I think she does not care for us, really. She just changed over for the love of wind and flowers. For the long walks on the beach.
© 2010 Nathalie Boisard-Beudin