No Man is an Island, but Our Mothers are the Sea

By Bridget Thomas

The mangroves in my grandmother’s backyard had plastic dolls with wings made of pipi shells tied to the branches. ‘One for each life I have lived’ she explained, the hem of her long white skirt unravelling in the mud. Yesterday, I stood atop an island gorge with my mother and quietly surveyed the grey mass of manta rays in the water
Subscribe or log in to read the rest of this content.
FavoriteLoadingSave This Story
Bridget Thomas

Bridget Thomas / About Author

> More posts by Bridget Thomas