AT THE BOTTOM OF THE CLIFF

Raghav Ramgopal ’24

Dear Patti,

On this lazy Sunday we sit on the sandy seashore of Moss Beach, California as succulents cling to the rugged cliff towering behind us. The same rugged cliff that separates us from the rest of the world. The one that felt as if it were transporting us to the pits of Hell while we climbed down its infinite number of unstable wooden stairs. The one that no one ventures beyond—that no one dares to challenge. No one except us.

Today, the sea violently churns with rage as if trying to escape itself—hide from itself. It headbutts into dark green, moss-covered rocks with a sonorous clang that is far stronger than the peaceful hums it usually sings. But the sound is beautiful. It is like a new melody in my ears. I have never heard anything like this. Water sprays everywhere. Droplets spray the sky. Droplets spray the sand.

I feel the droplets slowly coating my face. I close my eyes and the icy liquid meanders through my pores, sending shivers down my spine—vertebrae by vertebrae. You reach out your hand and I feel a plush towel transmit warmth into my veins. You run your thumb up and down my right sideburn. I just grew it—this sign of maturity. Aren’t you proud? Your boy is turning into a man.

But, sometimes, I just want to travel into the backyard of our modest, one-story house on Eleanor Avenue. I want to dive down to the bottom of the twelve-foot pool and pluck newly-bloomed roses from the garden out front. I slowly feel my head tilt up—my chin pointing to the sky. The sky is a deep, rich gray—a shade I have never experienced before. It is almost an inviting sort of gray. If you look past its ominous facade that darkens the world, it invites you to explore a galaxy far away from here. A galaxy that is of your own design. I feel myself enter a trance and, suddenly, the dry, dead grass of Shoup Park pokes through the arches of my bare feet. The hot June sun lights my cheeks red with the energy of childhood. Adobe Creek is finally full. It has been years since I have heard the sound of water gushing down the narrow stream with such haste. As I sprint to cool myself off in the fresh water, I feel two hands grab me under my shoulders and lift me up off the ground to fly high above the world. I look down to see you smiling joyously. I squeal with excitement as I soar above everyone else. You and I can rule the world. Then, it all vanishes. Gone like that.

Within an instant, I am transported back to the sandy seashore of Moss Beach, staring at a blank, gray sky. I turn to hug you. As I extend my arms, you vanish. Particle by particle, you disappear and float off into the wind like the sand you were sitting on. A whirlwind of sticks, twigs, leaves, and succulents vigorously circles your remains before you are all gone—before you have flown into the deep, gray sky and into the violently churning sea—leaving me alone again, with no one and nothing. Where have you gone, Patti? I miss you dearly.

Love, Raghav

*Patti is the South Indian way to say “grandma.”