• It is lonely up on the Pointe.

    The wind howls around its base, under the arch. I am not sure what it tells the sand, but the rim of the sea ignores the words and busies itself with tugging at the pebbles on the shore. The sea listens very well to silence, you know. I think maybe it is because its rim is so loud. The sand is gentle enough with the few words it does say, but it doesn't seem to be able to converse as well as the sea. Maybe that's because it has trouble thinking with the wind always yelling at it so. I speak to the sea, sometimes, but mostly I listen.

    If you are ever under the arch, I do not recommend leaning against the Pointe. The stone leaves bruises. You can lay in the sand with the sea on your side, if you do not mind the water soaking into your jeans and your only sweater, which sops up the sea and doesn't let it go for days. There is a scraped hollow in the Pointe that is just big enough for a not small person to slip inside and sit upright, if you are tired of standing and don't want to get too wet. The rock blocks the wind and the edges of the sky, and your feet are hidden by the foam. True, the water does stain your black sneakers, and your socks smell like fish for some time afterwards, but it is the best place to go if you don't want to be found. Even if the crags of the Point dig into your side and leave bruises, sometimes.

    The path up to the tip of the point is very steep. I heard once that it was made by a boulder as it crashed down the hillside, a boulder so large that it flattened the grass and sheered off the extra crags and rocks. It was not made for climbing. The path is not on the same side as the sea. It goes down the side of the Pointe facing the houses, and dribbles into a road in the woods. I decided to climb the path because the wind was being very cruel to the waves, and the sea was biting my toes. The sand was warm under the arch, and I wondered if the top of the Pointe was sand-filled, too.

    It is easy going up the path once you understand that it was not made for climbing. That way you can stop fussing at it and learn to grab the rock grass and pull yourself up, and dig your hands into the dirt hollows. Sticky hands make the going even easier, until dirt covers up the stick and the stick pats your hair against your left eye.

    There is a tree on the top of the Pointe. It is not very large, but the trunk is too high to climb. I smile when I see the tree because I can see that it speaks in silence, and under the arch only the Pointe speaks in silence and usually I do not like hearing what the Pointe has to say.

    The sea is much larger from up here.

    The wind says something to me, and for the first time I think it is nice. The words still make me shiver, though, and I promise myself to someday wear a thicker sweater on my body. Even if my brother gave me this one before he sailed away on the sea.

    "Listen."

    I jump and stare at the lady standing the edge of the Pointe. I wonder why I did not see her before. Her hair is very long, but not as long as her cloak, or as long as her dress. I decide to sit next to her.

    She greets me in silence, and so I answer her. She does not look away from the sea, so I look out at it as well. She acts as if she is watching one of the dragons skim the waves, but if there is, I cannot find it. The sea is so very large. It is grey against the grey sky, and the grey sky and the grey sea meet together in a far away place I would someday like to be at.

    "I'm alone." She explains, and wraps the cloak around her shoulders. "I'm cold."

    I take off my sweater and press it against her arm. She looks down at it, away from the sea. It's a gift, I say. She nods and takes it in her fingers. She does not know what to do with her cloak while she puts the sweater on. I can hold it, I say. She gives me the cloak and puts on my sweater then takes the cloak and throws it over the edge of the cliff, to the sea. I watch as it billows down. True, my sweater has holes and it's orange, which does not go well with the grey of her silk dress. But her cloak is thinner than my shirt, even, and my brother gave me the sweater. It's the best thing for being cold.

    "Want to go back?"

    She nods but does not move. I decide that screaming is not too strong of an action and so place my hand on her arm. She grips my hand in her own.

    We slide down the path, away from the Pointe. It's time to go Home.