Left Behind
Someone had left them there. Washed up on the bench at high tide and waiting for . . .
preservation? As evidence, perhaps?
A humble little collection, an oddity, sitting there as if they had every right, the
framed glasses on top of the leather sandals. Neatly arranged so, they could not have
accidentally fallen into place. Must have been arranged, carefully – lovingly? – placed, then
suddenly become ownerless. Strange, the detritus of human life that signals its absence.
Useful once, now become like driftwood . . .
Out to sea, a white yacht presses its progress north in the breeze, signalling its intent
by its full sails. Why are yachts white? Will it collide with a dead body, a detritus? An
owner?
Carved on the bench, “Jessie loves . . .”
There are weathered unreadable bits.
And, “I was here”.
It’s a wonder they haven’t fallen through the cracks, through the wooden slats of the
bench seat. But then, eventually, though close enough to touch, they must. A stronger
breeze would shift them – would send them in a brief final clatter on their downward journey. Like it did their owner perhaps. But it’s only fifteen knots now, not even twenty, and yet the yacht is already halfway across its horizon, sailing through its life carelessly.
A woman plays with her two children and a dog near the waterline and the gulls join
in. They dip in and out and cavort at odd angles or do whatever gulls do, now fast, now slow.
Her children are young and spirited. Their vanishing footprints chase them.
But no sign of an owner of glasses and sandals. No solitary walkers. No likely
suspects . . . couples, for instance, walking along the shoreline, barefoot with sandals and
hats held in hands and grey hairs and memories gone loose in the wind.
So, these are brown. The rims. Tortoiseshell, old fashioned. A man’s. The thick
convexity of them, smudged and unclear now, but with arms neatly folded, and facing up to
the clear blue sky, offering themselves up to heaven. No case; simply exposed to the
elements, the fifteen knot breezes, but high enough above the ground not to get buried yet in
shifting sands. Will the sun use their convexity to burn holes into the big-footed sandals
underneath them, as a final statement? Ashes to ashes, they say . . . reductio ad absurdum.
The woman and her children have already moved farther along the shoreline, their
silly dog giving chase. The yacht is almost out of sight now. Everything is going out of sight,
even the bright day as a newly formed cloud passes in front of its sun.
Time passes a sound behind.
“Look at that, will ye? Left ’em here yesterday, and they’re still here! Gord luv us,
matey! People are bloody honest, aren’t they?”
The tremulous owner with white hair and frailty to suit, redeems with his life his
belongings – beaming and happy to have found again what he had lost: his memory, and an
honesty in people.
Time to go home.
figuratio
September 2016
preservation? As evidence, perhaps?
A humble little collection, an oddity, sitting there as if they had every right, the
framed glasses on top of the leather sandals. Neatly arranged so, they could not have
accidentally fallen into place. Must have been arranged, carefully – lovingly? – placed, then
suddenly become ownerless. Strange, the detritus of human life that signals its absence.
Useful once, now become like driftwood . . .
Out to sea, a white yacht presses its progress north in the breeze, signalling its intent
by its full sails. Why are yachts white? Will it collide with a dead body, a detritus? An
owner?
Carved on the bench, “Jessie loves . . .”
There are weathered unreadable bits.
And, “I was here”.
It’s a wonder they haven’t fallen through the cracks, through the wooden slats of the
bench seat. But then, eventually, though close enough to touch, they must. A stronger
breeze would shift them – would send them in a brief final clatter on their downward journey. Like it did their owner perhaps. But it’s only fifteen knots now, not even twenty, and yet the yacht is already halfway across its horizon, sailing through its life carelessly.
A woman plays with her two children and a dog near the waterline and the gulls join
in. They dip in and out and cavort at odd angles or do whatever gulls do, now fast, now slow.
Her children are young and spirited. Their vanishing footprints chase them.
But no sign of an owner of glasses and sandals. No solitary walkers. No likely
suspects . . . couples, for instance, walking along the shoreline, barefoot with sandals and
hats held in hands and grey hairs and memories gone loose in the wind.
So, these are brown. The rims. Tortoiseshell, old fashioned. A man’s. The thick
convexity of them, smudged and unclear now, but with arms neatly folded, and facing up to
the clear blue sky, offering themselves up to heaven. No case; simply exposed to the
elements, the fifteen knot breezes, but high enough above the ground not to get buried yet in
shifting sands. Will the sun use their convexity to burn holes into the big-footed sandals
underneath them, as a final statement? Ashes to ashes, they say . . . reductio ad absurdum.
The woman and her children have already moved farther along the shoreline, their
silly dog giving chase. The yacht is almost out of sight now. Everything is going out of sight,
even the bright day as a newly formed cloud passes in front of its sun.
Time passes a sound behind.
“Look at that, will ye? Left ’em here yesterday, and they’re still here! Gord luv us,
matey! People are bloody honest, aren’t they?”
The tremulous owner with white hair and frailty to suit, redeems with his life his
belongings – beaming and happy to have found again what he had lost: his memory, and an
honesty in people.
Time to go home.
figuratio
September 2016
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