The road through the mountains crossed over a tired, long-since dried river bed, and further ahead on the horizon, a row of wind turbines stood as silhouettes against a hazy sky.

I glanced at Ana, whose focussed eyes and furrowed brow had taught me that a deep and rhetorical thought was imminent.

​​“I think when I’m gone I’d like one of those small, toy windmills on my grave.” She spoke softly, her eyes fixated on the distant wind farm.

It is turning off the light, and staring into the darkness.
Searching for shapes in the emptiness.
Asking your eyes to latch on to something.
Anything.
And then finding stability.

It is tumbling in the surf, from the impact of a stray wave.
Fumbling the pebbled floor with panicked hands.
Asking your body to orientate itself with something.
Anything.
And then finding stability.