The Hollow Shell ~ JAFFIR WAJAHAT

The Hollow Shell

JAFFIR WAJAHAT

The distinct crunch of gravel at dawn, as I walk over to a nearby bench, where my mother sits restlessly. Her gaze is distant, unfamiliar and vacant, as she stares out at the wildlife of the shadowed salt marsh, the coated blend of dark green pines and jade cordgrass mixing with a few light green elms and oaks that line the banks. Tears coat her light tan cheeks. “We shouldn’t have returned,” my mother whispers. “I ... I’m sorry mom. I promise I won’t be long. I’ll be right back,” I say, determined to see the beach I treasured so much, a place I was first introduced to as a starry-eyed three-month-old infant, the first beach I had ever been to. Coast Guard. I pass by the two-familiar shingled, snow white Coast Guard structures, their shingles colored lobster red. One’s grander in scale than its partner, both adorned with mint-colored shutters, hanging loosely by glossy, black, iron hinges. Dormers jut out from its gable roof, fixed on both sides. Summer is fading on this August day. A step into adult life, as my junior year will soon begin. Responsibilities I had never once held, a sweeping wave of fear, the death of my young mind. One last moment here, I promised her. Exiting the mouth of the path, I stand on the peak of the shoreline, gazing upon the landscape, a vast canvas of soft beige mixed with the burnt, tangerine glow of a young sun, just waking from its restful slumber. My eyes catch the gliding Atlantic, where seas of morning spruce lap gently against the coast, the spray of the crashing waves dotting my face as I approach the base of the shore. I clutch my warm mug of coffee in hand tightly, heat radiating from the top of the beverage, wafting a familiar scent, rich and dense, in nature. The scent blended with the long-forgotten smell of warm, frosted donuts that permeated the morning air, mixing with the dark, bitter strength of my grandfather’s cup’a joe. We would rest on an auburn-colored wooden bench, where the two of us would gaze out over the expansive rolling tides, frosting smeared on my lips as the sun shined down on us. Everything seemed simpler then, a time when life was of no concern, when I lived in the present, without mind of the past or the future. His aviators reflected the bright morning sun, with his navy-blue Yankees cap resting on his head, as he sipped his black coffee. He smiled gently, as he watched the sunlit salt marsh, gingerly holding my small hand with his large, callous, freckled hand, rough, yet comforting. The sun continued its approach on the horizon, as my small legs dangled over the ledge of the sanded bench, as the nearby scrub pines with their dark-green, bristle branches swayed in the peaceful morning breeze. A moment captured in time. A window into a past life. Standing here all these years later, I can’t help but admire the view of Coast Guard Beach. Shadows are cast on the rose hips behind me. Accompanying stalks of faded-green beach grass jut up from the wind-moulded dunes. The stalks dance in synchronous motion, their narrow figures pushed back from reaching stems of dark hickory. The dunes are steady, waves in perpetual tranquility, each grain of sand, older than life itself. In the endless tides, luminescence rises from the depths, casting away charcoal skies of eternity, dotted with departed light. The sea-green’s forced back in half tide. Beneath the retreating waves a shade of coffee-brown’s visible. Amongst the chilled sand, lay a single bronze shell embedded within the smooth reflective surface. Instinctively, I reach down to collect it. My eyes meet the foreign object as my cold hands hold the ribbed,

rust-colored shell of a scallop. The shell’s patterns evoke images of stratum in a cliff face, each section layered, a different shade of cream, caramel, or hazel. I stand firm in my position, rotating the object deposited by the great tides. I remember a time when smaller hands gripped a similar shell, one that was whole, a living animal, air bubbles popping from the seal in its split shell. The creature sputtered, the rusty lips of the shell gently moving, opening and closing, whispering secrets to me from its pursed lips. The words were indistinct as I set the animal back in the frigid autumn waters of the Atlantic, sprinting away from the mollusk as I went to join my grandfather at the peak of the shore. My laughter rang through the empty dawn-lit beach as my grandfather and I jogged down the coastline. A wide, pure smile creased his hollowed age-spotted cheeks, with a rich, tan complexion, short, wispy gray hair, and two piercing blue eyes that mirrored joy and life, embracing them in open arms. He wore his slim, steel blue and cardinal-red striped flannel shirt and his tan khakis, matching the color of the sun-drenched sand. Up the shoreline, I was carried, by my small feet, eager to move, rampant with energy, as my grandfather and I crested the hill, leading back to the path, where the old Coast Guard station sat, rigid, and sturdy, watchful of its surroundings. Its white paint shone brilliantly under the light of the warm sun; its red shingles bathed in golden sunlight. Its presence, welcoming, but fortified. Then, you were a friend, the guardian of my beach. My grandfather and I soon reached the pebbled gravel, up the path, outlined with tall tan beachgrass, life fading from their narrow forms. The memory dissipates. Harsh winds whip around my frame, as my bare feet sink into the wet grain. The beams reach the darkened, murky surface of the waves, now shimmering with glee as daylight begins to warm the brisk waters of the Atlantic. The spiral rays of gold interwoven with carmine and skyblue hues cast a shade of fluorescent orange light on my hands. I step back from my position near the breaking waves and begin a slow walk down the rising shore. Herring and Black-backed gulls blanket the shoreline ahead, resting freely on their chests, feathers tossed by the wind. Their spotted pepper gray young nestled under their mother’s wings, eyes closed tight, at rest. The yellow eyes of the parents, reflective spheres, view the beach carefully in sync with their rotating heads. A reminder of the eye of a lighthouse, in a constant state of alertness. Soon, I pass the wetlands of Nauset Bay with their tall, disheveled scrub pines and their twisted umber bark. The air’s a ghostly presence, left behind, years past. A mix of deepened spruce and fresh seaside air. The landscape conjures blurry images, evoking thoughts of a perfect time, when the clock was without motion, when naivety was a gift. I’m alone, in your presence, Coast Guard, left to listen to the crashing of the great-blue waves and the calm whispering of the seaside breeze.

I learned your beauty from him. The time I’ve spent with you, before I could even stand, I will always remember, but you were not my teacher. My grandfather, he alone taught me the names of the wildlife that resides on your sloping shores. From the armored horseshoe crab, to the magenta beach rose, he taught me to respect and appreciate the life you bear, to watch the beauty of nature unfold on your shores. My heart longs for a return to those moments, when we would enjoy those warm frosted donuts and the deep taste of bitter, black coffee, and afterwards when we would run down the sloping coastline. Standing in the bitter cold, I realize that I will never hold his hand again. I will never be able to hear his familiar laugh, filled with his characteristic warmth. I won’t be able to speak with him ever again, his voice, now a mere echo in my mind. I won’t be 46

able to see him ever again, as his face dips into the realm of obscurity after all these years, only recognizable in hollow photographs. I won’t be able to relive those moments with him, standing by his side as we watch the dawn of a new day. My eyes drip wet, as I gaze out at the encompassing void of the deep, restless Atlantic. Clouds of steel rise in the distance. Leaving in the wake of my tears, I pass through the nearing path, lined with skewed picket fences and a bed of splintered, wooden boards, both a matching shade of weathered ashen gray, reflecting the darkness of the ominous clouds lingering overhead. At the peak of the sloping path, I look back to the darkened beach, with the rolling, navy-colored ocean giants, merging with the howling winds. My vision begins to cloud as the surroundings dissipate, the gloss, receding into a solemn picture, as I turn my back on the fading image of Coast Guard. That picture is what I will depart with. I can let go of you, for now I realize, my memories weren’t defined by your image, Coast Guard. They were defined by him. Without his presence, your canvas lies a blank slate, without definition, ready to be cultivated, for new memories to shape you. For now, I leave you, until better days approach. Only then, will I return, to greet your visage once more. We will be strangers then, and a new relationship will begin. Until then, I bid you farewell.