Mama sent me a video of the sea today. I watched it three times. I like thinking that there is a sea somewhere. There is always a sea somewhere, living, breathing, moving, making waves. What if the distance, the kilometers of land between me and the sea don’t separate us, but connect us?

I like thinking that my mama is now walking by the sea, breathing in the salty air, covering from the wind, poking pebbles with the tip of her shoe. I like thinking of her on the beach. She used to carry me in her body. We share the same DNA. So, in many imperceptible but important ways, there is a part of me on that beach today.

I like that there are no people on the video. We’re yet far off season. The sea is resting, undisturbed by the white-bodied northerners, impertinent children and busy crowd in the beach cafés. I used to live and work on French Riviera, I know the difference between the sleepy calm of the winter and the frenzy of the summer. I always liked the sea in winter. I always liked that in France you can take a two hour lunch break and no one would bat an eyelash. Nobody likes their work in France, so we know how to make the best out of the blessed two hour pause in the middle of the day. In winter, I would put my sandwich in a back-pack with a notebook and a pen, and would bike to the beach. I would leave the bike by a picket fence that was about to fall over, cross the strip of sand and find a dry and sunny spot on a large stone near the water.

Unlike the locals, I knew my time by the sea would not last forever. I didn’t have any special skills that would solidify my connection to it or would tempt me to stay. I didn’t sail, dive or snorkle and I had neither money nor ambition to learn. The beautiful thing in that relationship was that it was me who was temporary. I left, the sea remained. It still breathes and moves and makes waves. It doesn’t wait for me, but I hope that in some imperceptible important way it remembers.