Heritage

(her- i- tij) n. She always hated the sea, probably because she lived so close to it.  She hated the smell -- the horrible, salty, rotting smell -- and the constant stream of noise.  Not the noise of the water, but the sounds of the people who flocked to it.  A private beach would have been better, if they could have afforded one.  But a private beach still wouldn’t solve the smell or the scratchy, invading grains of sand that snuck up her skirt and shirt and nose when the wind was strong.

She dreamed of open plains of wheat, like the ones in her fathers old pictures.  The pictures that never caught him smiling.  The fields he drove away from for college.  

Now he watches the ocean like an old friend who rescued him in his adolescence, watching it from across the street in content silence, and responding to its every call with a smile.

Every night she dreams of fields of wheat, golden and dry from a short burst of drought so the stalks rustle as she passes.  Soil rich and deep instead of loose and ever shifting, and roots strong and deep and reliable for when the wind is strong.