Quiet Beach

A hermit crab was tickling her toes.

She tried wiggling them but, of course, she could not.

The crab flicked a claw-full of sand at her. Cheekily, almost.

Sighing inside herself she settled into the baking sand, trying her best to ignore yet another of the endless little discomforts that her life had lately become composed of.

The family had not noticed the little hive of construction activity going on at her feet, so intensely focussed were they on the task of keeping her body from falling apart. Someone was packing on more sand, then water. She felt someone else – the second sister, most likely - carefully arrange what smelt like fresh seaweed on top of her head.

She smiled, hoping that the sister would feel her gratitude. How sad, that having nice hair seemed the height of dignity these days. If only her body would stop crumbling. The water they applied from their pails didn’t appear to be working.


Beyond her feet, she heard the sounds of the brother’s tireless battle.

Each day, he dug a trench in the sand.

Each day, he would plant himself in his trench and glare at the encroaching tide. Beating it back with the ferocity of his hope.

Each evening he stood guard, his face salt-stained. Like David, poised in defiance of the darkening sky and omnipresent waves.

Each day, her heart broke for him.

In this battle, Goliath was as unstoppable as the ocean was vast.

Inevitably, a particularly energetic wave would get past him. Bringing along a curious friend or two.

The waves would tease, washing over her feet like a blanket. And when the swath of water receded her feet would have disappeared! Just like in magic shows!

But the family would always rebuild her. Not letting her slip away. Not this time, no, not ever.


Time.

It had moved like quicksand at the start. Day after baking hot day had dragged on. Hours ticked by like the little insects that marched daily across her body. Still, she lay there as the world went on around her. She would know that it was daytime from the casual comings and goings of people on the beach. Just as the glow in her head would change from fiery crimson to gentle amber, the cheery voices of the family that had made her would gradually mute into hushed whispers. Nightfall.

And the sea would come back.

Always.

Like a patient lover who knows that all it takes is time.


The beach trembled as the sea crept steadily along. Pausing only for the briefest of moments as if in mock tribute to the lonely, flooded trench, the waves approached, bearing flowers of foam.

"And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon"

She felt the first, almost tentative touch. First her toes, then slowly caressing up her feet, legs, thighs. Stroking from hips to the gentle rise and fall of her belly.

Made of sand. Always content to sit by herself as the family bustled about her. Demanding nothing, fussed over nonetheless.

She settled into warm dark water around her, aware that the sand beneath her, from her, was slowly slipping away.

Precious pieces of her self. Drifting, carried off.

Vanishing.

Reclaimed.


****

Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with you
Blessed are you amongst women
and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus
Holy Mary mother of God,
pray for us sinners now
and at the hour of our death
Amen.

In memoriam.

17th September 1945 - 6th June 2006

Be at peace, ever more.


***

Postscript - I was inspired to write this story, albeit with a less ...finite ending, a week or so ago. In the last days of her illness, my aunt was bedridden. Though her mind was fully aware, she had hardly the strength to speak. How lonely it must be, to be trapped inside the prison of your failing body.

I wanted to read to her, to provide some form of stimulation for her mind. But there was never any suitable reading material in her house. I tried reading from a booklet called "Meditations for the Terminally Ill" but ended up ad-libbing. Did she really need to be told to rejoice when the indignity of needing assistance to ease her bodily functions upset her so much? No.

With nothing else available at the time, I did the next best thing. I told her that Angelina Joile had finally given birth and no, they didn't name the baby Brangelina. She managed a laugh. I'd like to think humour is good.

I went home that day with the thought that I'd write her some short stories. The idea of the isolation of a sand-woman came soon after and with those seeds, I should have started writing it then, instead of yesterday morning.

Anyways. In case the afterlife happens to have lightning (literally)-speed connection or better yet, is the Internet, Ah Yee, this is for you. If not, I'll send it to you by burning. Please check your firebox.

Was that you, that moth on the wall on Monday?