Sailboats

Everything is white. The brilliant white of expensive paper or the blinding white of a light bulb flash. A black line begins to seep through. The line lazes across, then drops to create a cliff. The cliff is sand, the glittering white the sun on the ocean water. The cliff cups a beach where no birds cry and no children shout. There are only the waves and the light, and a man sitting where the sun, water and sand meet.

The man is old, but his back bends over a project. From a pile of drift wood he whittles tiny boats, steady hands carving delicate masts and prows. The sun warms his back.

The sun dipping into the horizon, the man places each sailboat along the edge of the shore. With his toes, he nudges each ship into the water. Hands on his hips, he watches the ships bob out into the ocean, following the dazzling line of the sun. Silent, he remains on the shore, the waves touching his feet, watching until the last boat disappears.

Alone, his hands fall to his sides. He collapses into the sinking sand, tears dropping into the ebbing water.