My grandmother was born on a rather small island.
It takes just 10 minutes or less to walk across from an edges to another one.
A long time ago, they said, the fishing was so prosperous that over 100 people lived on the island.
She spent a very short period of her early childhood on the island.
She reflected about, “the window in her house through which a cliff over sea was visible so near.” That is the only image of the island that I heard about from her.
Memories of infancy ― the sound of waves, smell of the tide, awe of the night sea, vague and fragile images of feeling through her whole body. ― had followed her life like a shadow as a symbol of premonition or fear , I imagine.
I visited the island where now no more than 10 people remain to spending their lives calmly.
The island seems as if he accepts his fate that no one will live there tomorrow.
The history of the island overlaps the lives of its people.
Someday people will just view the island from a distance and be reminded of the relic when they hear the name of the island.
The house that she lived in has disappeared already.
On the island of her memories , no one visits there any more, I picture the landscape that she once saw.