By: Aaron Endré
Thin vanilla clouds hang suspended above an ocean
of deep blues and greens. Seaweed lifelessly floats
on the breaking shoreline. In the distance a boy builds
a castle of sand and dreams as seagulls fly overhead singing
their song of hunger and despair. In a moment his mother
will beckon for him to come back and leave this place of wonder.
He meditates on thoughts of his sandy kings and wonders
if his life was not unlike that castle. His mother, a deep ocean
of false fears and regrets warned him. My mother,
he told his friends, is prepared for Y2K. But his words floated
away on the humid breeze like a frail song.
There was something growing inside him that she had built.
On what was his faith and trust in her built?
Had she spoken to him some truth? he wondered.
Maybe her fears were true and the singing
and praying were not for naught. He peered at the ocean
in its endless existence and considered floating
to some exotic place and never returning home. Mother
would find him though. Perhaps his mother
would notice his sudden absence and would build
an armada of rationalizations and hopes that would float
about in her mind and offer her no solace. A wondrous
place the beach is, she would tell him. Calm oceans
and no worries. He listened and marveled at the praises she sang.
The boy considered adding a cathedral for the singing
of hymnals that had once given him comfort. Mother
would approve of that. But it was late and the waves of the ocean
were already creeping past the towers and regal buildings
that he presided over. To him, it was the eighth world wonder
already being destroyed by white foam that floats
on top of the surf like a thief stealing his dreams. It floats
like he would float: endlessly breaking apart and coming together and singing
the tunes that Mother Earth had sung to him. The sun smiled at him in wonder
of his accomplishment this day. But the sun was tired and Mother
Earth was beckoning him too. The boy stood back and looked at what he built
and watched as each piece was pulled back into the dark ocean.
One day you too will float away, past this beach and past your mother,
The dying sun sang to him. I have seen what you will build.
They are many wondrous things, like drops in this ocean.