Hard conversations are excavations where the uncomfortable truth is painstakingly chipped away and chiselled at until it is laid bare. By looking at the fossil on the table, we can know what once was and how the present came to be. You can bury the fossil again. You can put it behind glass on display. You can get a second opinion.
An old friend comes to visit me from abroad. They have not been on our island since COVID. Together we go walking in the hills. They are a living time capsule, a messenger, a window, a dusty mirror. They notice the scars, fresh, where the fossil is uncovered and reburied ritually. We dredge it out of the hillside. With practice, this gets easier.
My old friend holds the fossil in their hands. It is quiet except for the wind turbine. They offer a second opinion. I try not to show how afraid I am.
This is an old thing, they say. But you are so much more than this. The weight of time hangs in their words. They hand the fossil back. You cannot bury it again, they say. It is time to smash it and let the past become dust once more.
Release coagulates into saltwater and moves into my eyes where it then falls to the earth and eventually reunites with the sea. I smash the fossil.