E SHE NEVER NOTICED THE FLOWERS

SHE NEVER NOTICED THE FLOWERS?
The sand is still warm from the sun beating down on it. I dig deep to
where there is a cool dampness, my knees weaken; my armpits crawl with
a strange chill. Nothing has changed. The seagulls still play with the
debris left by others . . . the takers who wallow and swallow, then
spit and dash. The birds pick and pull on old bread, molded bologna,
discarded popcorn and shredded wax paper. Empty bottles lay neck down
in the sand offering a nickel return . . . it used to be two cents . .
. certainly more than life was offering then.
Seaweed spread along the shoreline smells like putrid flesh. Dead
jellyfish left behind by the rhythmic crescendo of the ocean look like
small mounds of gray gloom. The sun is preparing to slide down behind
the horizon, another day's work completed, while the weary tide moves
out leaving a solid emptiness. And my heart aches with sullen memories
of other tides, other shorelines, other days spent by the swelling and
ebbing of this vast body of water, so full of history, carrying people
to freedom, or death.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Swimming, running, moving tons of earth during the day left our small
brown bodies aching pleasurably and we were hungry. Mother wiped away
the sand that covered us with a faded blue towel, scratching and
irritating our soft bodies, soft bodies that she once took more care
with, powdering them ever so lightly. Now, she avoided all physical
contact with us. There was none of the usual caressing or hugging that
should have flowed naturally as part of the maternal instinct. I could
tell that she didn't care anymore.
If you looked hard enough you could always find a cloud just about
anywhere.
Having forgotten about the pleasures of the summer day as it drew to a
close, we, all three, anxiously watched the road in anticipation of his
arrival. Would he be tired, angry, not sure of wanting to be here . . .
would he bring dinner or just arrive . . . horrid and shouting . . .
and off we would go . . . to home . . . to more anger and shouting, no
one hungry any longer; the sweet memory of a warm summer day shattered
forever.
"When can we eat? I'm hungry," he said. He was younger than me by
three years, his view of life still primitive.
"When your father gets here," she said, while watching the road,
uncomfortably.
I looked out over the water, seeing some movement, almost, maybe some
fish leaping and playing, freely. I wondered what it would be like to
move with such grace and ease, unknowing of the dangers around. The
fish are lucky, I thought, they don't have any unanswered
questions.
"Mother, are we happy?" I asked.
"I never notice the flowers," she answered, avoiding my eyes.
"Mother, will we eat here, on the beach?" I asked, wanting to forget
that I didn't get the answer that would have made me feel safe.
She was silent.
"When will he get here?" he asked, as his small stomach rumbled,
validating his repetitive question.
"Just be quiet," she answered, abruptly, unaware of the fear and
insecurity permeating the vulnerable cocoon by her side, as unhappiness
oozed out of her.
We, all three, stood facing in the direction of the road. And, then,
there he was. We watched the slow deliberate movement of the car as he
searched for a place to park; someplace close, not too far away, only
to shorten the laborious chore of crossing through the hot sand after a
long day's work.
"I think I see him, he's here, can I go to meet him? Mother, please,
maybe I can help him carry things. Maybe I can carry the soda. May I,
please?" I chanted, jumping up and down with anticipation.
"No, he'll manage himself," she snapped and sat down on her chair with
its green and yellow plastic strips woven together around the
inexpensive aluminum frame. She did not have a nice canvass and wood
chair to sit in like the ladies with affluent husbands. She sat with
her arms crossed, looking Sphinx-like, sternly studying the sea,
resigned to the fact that this plastic chair would have to last for
many summers, a small reminder of their inadequate income. And,
inadequate life.
I watched as he took two bags from the car and began the long walk
over the scorching sand. His weariness from the day showed as he slowly
shuffled across to where we waited.
"Mother, may I help him? Please?" I begged, hoping that by running to
him and helping everything would be okay. Maybe he would be happy for a
short time and his mood gentle, maybe even playful. The sea was waiting
for us. He could cool down and then we could play tag in the water, as
we would do sometimes, when his mood was light and things had been
"okay" between "them". The water always seemed to soothe things over.
The coolness, the swaying, being carried by the waves, not caring about
anything. The sea knew what it had to do, and I felt safe there,
knowing what to expect, the rocking, caressing, and the sudden
saltiness pleasantly coating lips and tongue.
"No, sit down." Her voice was heavy with regret and
disappointment.
Hardly anyone knows the rules.
"I told you, there is no reason to go to him," she said, softly-mostly
to herself, or was it to the gentle wind blowing in from the sea.
One week later, at the same spot, on the beach, in the evening, early
evening, he whispered to her, or was it to the gentle wind blowing in
from the sea, "Do you want me to leave?" .
"I told you there is no reason for you to leave," she said softly,
mostly to herself, or was it to the gentle wind blowing in from the
sea.
"You told me nothing. That tells me nothing. No reason to leave, no
reason to stay, that tells me nothing," he said.
"Please, the children!" she snapped.
"To hell with the children. You always use them as an excuse to avoid
talking to me. I can't understand you."
He walked down to the edge of the water and stopped. Then he walked
into the sea. And, he kept walking. Will he go on and on, I wondered,
as I watched him slowly disappear as the waves engulfed him. More and
more of his body disappeared.
She watched him with distain. Her face shouting-her eyes shouting- her
body saying, "yes, go on . . . do it . . . see if I cry out . . . to
stop you . . . go do it . . . I won't . . . cry out . . . you can, but,
I won't . . . damn you to hell!"
When he came back to shore I found myself wishing that he had kept on
walking. The loneliness and pain in his eyes was more intense than ever
before.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I moved closer to the shoreline. The muddy part, where you can leave
footprints, because the sand is so wet. I lay down and stretched my
arms and
legs out sideways, as far as they would go, exposing myself to the
elements, to fate. Soon the water gently touched the soles of my feet.
I lay there, afraid to move, and afraid not to. I could feel myself
sinking further and further into the soft earth beneath me. I wondered
which would win, the tide rushing in to save me, rocking me gently
while carrying me out to sea or the hungry ground beneath me, sucking
me down, burying me, suffocating me, freeing me from the
memories.
Mesmerized, I lay there, first hoping for one and then the other. And,
finally, not really caring which way the contest went.
Suddenly, a huge wave crashed over me, left me gasping for air, and
retracted. I closed my eyes, anxiously anticipating the next one. I
didn't want to know when it would come or how big it would be. I held
my breath, then decided that I would rather leave it to chance, and
started to breath again. How close could I come, I wondered, to not
returning, holding out as long as possible, until the last breath was
obvious, and then, as he did, turn and walk away from the door to
freedom.
A large wave came crashing down, oblivious to my minuscule existence,
sweeping over me, pulling me with it, enfolding me within its
tremendous embrace. I let myself go, my body limp, being carried by the
tide to wherever it might take me. Again, I felt safe, the sea always
knowing what it had to do. I lay on my back, rocking with the waves.
Then I turned toward shore. Slowly I walked out of the water, renewed,
cleansed, seeing the ghosts on the beach for the last time, knowing
that they could never touch me again. The memories were put to
rest.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Over the years I had watched a gray hollowness settle around him. As he
grew old, whenever I would look into his eyes, I remembered his day of
resignation on the beach, when he had returned from the depths of the
sea with empty eyes, and how I had wished that he had chosen freedom.
And, then, maybe she would have noticed the flowers.