Truly Living
In my memories, we still raced to build walls of sand and moats around the sculptures that my father and uncle had made with us earlier that day. Sensations danced through my mind: the harsh breeze whipping across the shoreline; the waves crashing in the distance; complaints tumbling from my brother's mouth about the sun and his fair skin. I knew that both the airplane and the mermaid would not survive the rising tide. We all knew, of course, but saving them wasn't the point of our endeavor. The anticipation of the destruction was what kept us building, working, constructing. Our hands and shovels toiled for hours, but, once the water reached the outer wall, we stopped to watch nature reclaim the sand we had rearranged.
The coffin was open before me, my father off comforting his mother. My surroundings dulled lightly, my uncle's corpse suddenly my only focus. Memories sloshed around my mind as my hand slowly, subconsciously extended to touch his bare skin.
Unlike the embraces I remembered, the skin was cold and stiff. Despite, I didn't move or pull away. My seven-year-old mind merely considered the situation. This skin-shell exactly resembled my uncle, albeit paler, but it wasn't him anymore. He couldn't feel the warmth of my fingers or hear the mourning of his mother, his siblings, his old friends and ex-wife.
Like the sand sculptures, he only survived in memory, taken away at thirty-five by the ocean of time. Eventually, everyone I had ever known would be swept away by the same current. One day, even I would be reclaimed.
As this realization solidified, I withdrew my hand with a newfound calmness.
This was death, and the knowledge of its inevitable arrival inexplicably comforted me.
For the first time in my young life, I truly felt alive.
Uncle Ed Knew Best
He always keeps enough fuel in his truck to safely drive from Florida to New Hampshire in the case of any kind of potential apocalypse scenario. There, he has a home that has a hidden room behind the fireplace. In this room are weapons and supplies, enough to eat and drink for a decent amount of time and adequately protect oneself should anyone wander far enough into the White Mountains to find him. His gun license would no longer be necessary, but the guns themselves would be vital.
I had always thought he was crazy, and yet now all I can do is hope that my daughter will find her way from Vermont, where she goes to college, to New Hampshire safely. They hadn't left for Florida yet the last time I talked to them. My sister and her husband would keep her safe, a niece every bit as important to them as their sons. I think she has a chance. Intelligent, like Lynda, and not lacking common sense, like me. Best of both sides of the family, really.
My son is too soft. I don't expect to find him alive in his school, to be honest.
I can't believe I wrote that. There might be a chance. As much as we always fight, I love him. He's my son. Even if I don't always like him, I love him.
Lynda isn't likely alive either. She was in DC this week, presenting to the FDA. A small town like ours has fallen apart, so I can't imagine anyone respectable in the cities are even left. My ex-wife is very respectable. I don't think she'll make it.
My younger brother lives in the next town over with his wife and children. We haven't talked in three years, since the day he decided that he hates everything about me and always has. However, he never let his Massachusetts gun license expire like I did. That, and he owns a handful of cars that eat gas like candy. My car gets good mileage. No matter why he hates me, I know he loves his family.
My Plan:
1. Read this over to regain myself.
2. Pack all the food, batteries, potential weapons, etc into the car that I can.
3. Drive to my son's school. I can't take his friends with us. He'll hate me.
4. Try not to argue with my son while we drive to Jay's.
5. Convince Jay, if he's there, that we should get over ourselves for our kids.
6. Go to New Hampshire.
7. If necessary, leave my son with my sister and go find my daughter.
Read it over to regain myself.
Read it over.
One more time.
My son's alive.
He'll be alive when I get there.
It's time.
-RS-