Let’s Forget

Yesterday I went up into the attic to look for box of books I hadn't unpacked after the move. I stumbled upon a shoebox full of yellowed papers and fading black and white photos. At the bottom of the box was an empty silver locket; it wasn't attached to any chain. Next to the locket was a crushed velvet pouch containing a dublin style briar pipe with a bamboo stem. I carried the box downstairs, found my cavendish, and after cleaning the pipe began to smoke a bowl. As I smoked my hands searched through shoebox, carefully unfolding sheets of paper and peering into envelopes, shuffling through a stack of photos. A old man and an old woman stood silently next to each other, smiling and holding holds. The back of the photo told me that these two people were my great grandparents; my father's father's parents. This letter was from my great grandfather to his girlfriend; he was in England studying law. He wrote of drinking with friends at a local bar and symbolic logic and engagement when he returned. This envelope contained two letters in it. One was from my great grandfather to his wife. The other was a reply. Nothing special about either of them. I finished going through the box, the last surviving evidence of my great grandparents existence, other than a few records in some government filing cabinet. I smoked another bowl in that ancient pipe and put the box back into the attic. I never did find those books I was looking for.

All streams flow into the sea

I was walking along the beach, sandals in hand and pants rolled halfway up my calves. My white t-shirt soaked up enough sun to bring me to a sweat. I didn’t really mind; I could cool off in the water whenever I wanted, not that the breeze wasn’t doing its job.

I came to an outcropping of rocks. If I were a geologist I would probably try to analyze the composition of the rock and possibly estimate the age of it. I might even use a small chisel that I carried around, just for this sort of occasion, and chip of a small piece to look at later. Instead I just sat down in the shade the rocks created, found the sandwich and water I had packed earlier, and had my dejeuner.

I thought to myself, as it is indeed difficult to think to another, I should have packed more.

I debated leaving my trash in the sand so that the wind might destroy the evidence of my eating. I repacked the remainder of the water and shoved the crumpled paper bag into a small exterior pocket of my backpack.

I resumed my strolling across the mini desert. I moved closer to the massive oasis that lined one side of the desert, my feet now patting along in soggy sand, leaving an imprint of my journey. The tiny waves rushed up around my ankles. I looked back for a second. A few of the indentations my feet had made remained intact, but most were nothing more than a faded mark in the sand or, even worse, completely gone.

I had no idea what time it was and my mind was wandering through an arena of subjects, jumping to a new one with each wave. I wonder how sailors figured out the time. A sun dial, I suppose. How does one use a sextant? A swell encompassed my ankles. Finny lost his innocence falling from a tree; when was mine lost? Another swell. I hope there’s some whiskey left at home; I’d like to have a highball when I get back.