The trees, buildings, and powerlines, fall away; nothing but stone gray along the horizon. You coast into a parking lot, every space is vacant, obscured by street sand and leftover snow. You navigate into the closest spot overlooking the concrete retaining wall. You shift into park and turn off the car’s ignition. You then lean across the center console for your cane before pushing the door(A) open and step out into the frigid day.
A cold wind cuts through your parka, you pull it close until the gust wanes. Seagulls announce their presence overhead, wailing as they circle the sky. Your journey commences, cane aiding your way. The parking lot’s pavement ends(B) unceremoniously, your cane is the only sure pillar on the snow pocked sand dune. It takes a few paces to find your footing, nevertheless, you continue over the peak and onto the beach without incident. Low-tide waves break, close yet in the distance. The sound of an unstoppable force meeting the unmovable coast.
The crashing waves drown out the sound of your shoes scuffing the frozen sand. You walk the uneven path towards the end of the beach. A jetty of stones(C) that step deep into the churning currents. Even with the cane, you are far too old to climb the rocks.
You stop to catch your breath and face the ocean(D), looking to the horizon. The water is an endless blue that descends into the abyss. The walk is considerably longer than it used to take, by the time you return to your car the sand dune seems insurmountable. Heartbreak Hill(E), yet you make it over the damn thing.
You touchdown on pavement and retrieve the keys from your pocket to unlock the car. You take one last look at the ocean as you open your door. You say, Happy birthday, sweetheart. I hope to see you soon.
Endnote-A: You pushed the car door open and stepped out, underneath the unrelenting summer sun. You were seventeen. This was your first long-distance road trip since you became a licensed driver. It took three hours to get here, along with a capable navigator. The trip would’ve been lonesome without her. She got out of the passenger side and stared at the ocean in awe. Blue as far as her eyes could see. She beamed, ear to ear. You couldn’t help but smile, yourself. She broke towards the water, leaving the towels and cooler for you. You’re happy to do it. She had never seen the ocean before, living her entire life in landlock.
Endnote-B: The parking lot ended, you stepped into the sand. You were twenty-three. Although you’ve vacationed here together before, she cannot contain her excitement. She led the way, you follow her footprints, the space between them grows with each pace. You tried to keep up but dropped the beach chairs in haste. She laughed at the ordeal but stopped when you got on your knee. She told you, yes.
Endnote-C: The jetty was slick, you minded your footing, methodic with each step. You were thirty-seven. Age had already sunk in but you were still able to transverse the rocks with your son, this was the first time he was able to do it. Each of you celebrated in laughter when you each the last stone. She watched below, ankle deep in the breaking water water, peering their way. As far out on the jetty as you were, you could still see her smile.
Endnote-D: You faced the sea; it was the color of her eyes. You were sixty-four. You led the way; she lost the bounce in her step. There were volumes to say but neither of you had the resolve to speak. She was overdressed for the location. You made sure her hat shielded her from the late summer sun. She didn’t want to come, however you insisted. You told her that it would get her mind off things.
Endnote-E: Heartbreak Hill. Your new name for the sand dune, since part of you broke that day. You were sixty-five. You didn’t want to come but your son insisted. He told you that it would take your mind off things. The beach always reminded you of her, you saw her everywhere when you were here. It was probably the last place he wanted to be. You walked the coast, your son by your side. You asked him to bring you home once you finished.
First published 14-Feb-2020, republished 19-July-2023. © 2020, 2022 copyright by Thomas M Surette Jr, all rights reserved.
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Thomas Surette 