An Island

My husband is an island. A self-sufficient, self-sustaining, island like his father before him. We (myself and our kids) are the ocean waves that incessantly beat at his shores, begging to unite land with water, yet, always seeming to get nowhere. We rise up as tall as we can and rush in, throwing ourselves upon him. But, again and again, we roll off his repellent surface, at best, sifting through some of his sandy beaches before returning to our separate space. I share this reluctant fate with my kids, though they manage to cling to the surface of his rocky shoreline longer than I am able to. I seem to always throw myself upon his cliffs, resulting in a spectacular collision of water and rock. I dont recede as much as I fall backawayfrom him. Yet, steadfast, he remains, a constant construct of awesome and miraculous creation, a paradoxal exploding of solids from the bottom of the oceans floor, fireworks of fiery rock blasting from the oceans surface.