He awakens to the undulating roar of something about to envelop him. His eyes open to the darkness as he listens, tries to remember where he is, what has happened. His hand feels for the top of the zipper in a sleeping bag, finds the metal tab and pulls it down 4 inches that admit the white, blinding sun of morning into his eyes.
The rolling thunder grows louder, more articulate, and a cool, soggy breeze bears the smell of the lake and the sand gently to him. He hears the gulls’ cry as they begin to stir before gathering for flight. Grand Haven on the beach… He remembers driving up with a bottle in the dark, thinking of it all. He unzips the sleeping bag down to his waist and sits up. The blue on blue of the sky as it meets Lake Michigan looks fresh, clean. The little white gulls speckle the offshore, some still sleeping with their heads tucked under their wings, others preening, anxious to begin.
He unzips the bag all the way, climbs out and walks a few steps down to where the foaming tip of the waves meet the beach. The sand is cold and damp to his bare feet, and as the creamy froth washes over them, they begin to numb. A few of the birds, impatient with the rest, circle low over the water.
He looks down the long shoreline to where it is lost as it rounds into pines. The red lighthouse at the end of the long raised peer stands deserted as always. All of this water, sand, and sky belongs to him for the moment, as he begins to remember. Dipping his cupped hands into the icy waves and splashing his face, he remembers the phone call from his brother, the sound of his voice heavy with the slow, irrevocable weight of grief.
As if someone had given a signal, the gulls suddenly climb into the air, circle once and fly high over the water toward the West. He watches them become tiny white specks upon the light blue sky, until they finally disappear. Shivering in the water, the morning air cool, damp on his skin, he warms himself simply by turning his eyes into the new morning sun. The glow is too bright so he closes his eyes, sensing yet the brilliance coming through the lids.
He remembered driving past his father’s house on Mound Road Friday afternoon, intending to stop only yesterday, and at the last moment deciding he just didn’t want to put himself through that again, the pain of witnessing how little there was left of his father, who had once been strong and vital and so much a part of everyone’s life, too painful to hear the bitterness in his pleas for me to do better, for me to do more, for me to be here where I was needed most. It was easier not to stop, to pass by the house, to simply go home and spend a quiet evening enjoying the sunset and having a cool drink. There would be other times to stop, to absorb whatever was necessary in order to see him, to make sure he was doing as well as possible.
He opened his eyes and looked south along the beach, saw in the distance a man and woman walking hand-in-hand perhaps a half mile away coming toward him. Alone, listening to the waves rush over the sand, the seagulls playing in the air, he remembers getting the call at home, standing there with the phone, hearing the words spoken, and realizing only then, how very much he was going to miss his father.
