Shell

Your grandfather lies dying. His only son sits by his side, playing him Beethoven's ninth and Handel's Messiah. He hums along, as best he can. The old man mumbles in his haze, speaks of skiing and is this how it ends, then? There are no answers, because we do not know.

You sit around the camp fire, roasting marshmallows and listening to Americana. Raccoons run in the trees around you, cicadas color the sky in sound. They speak of Africa, of Vietnam, of the life of perpetual expats. The car comes to pick him up for the airport, and it seems a rude awakening. You seem forever rooted to inertia.

But the salt water colored your hair white today, the sun turned your shoulders a speckled brown. She jumped and swam in the surf by your side, pleading for just five more minutes, and she laughed the way only a three-year-old can. The pebbles on the beach are worn smooth by the eons. A message comes from across the waters: we hold our breaths, but the baby is due in May.

All in one day. Life continues, unabated.