Almost a Conversation

Someday I will die. I will die on the beach with its salt scent in my nose. The flies that were swirling orgiasitically upon some rotting kelp will catch a whiff of me and will shift over to attend to my passing. I will die with wet feet covered in sand and with seagulls squawking out their distinctive dirge. The waves will continue crashing, though I will no longer hear them. Six brown pelicans, in formation, will glide along the crest of the next wave about to break. Scarcely moving a wing, they will disappear to the right of me while the next formation will appear to the left. When I die, children will be playing in the sand, completely unaware of what time it is or of the dangerous undertow that lurks just beyond the shorebreak. They will be building dripping towers with delight while imagining towers that seemingly stand forever and yet will become undone when the next tide comes around. When I die the sun will be high in the sky. The sand will be hot on top and cool beneath. The cypress trees will stretch their languid limbs to grant me shade to no avail. When I die my last thoughts will be how did I get here, what did I do to deserve all this good, why did I not spend more time simply feeling the sand between my toes, the mist in my nose, the wind as it comes and goes, the timelessness of a day at the beach, a day such as this, the day I die and leave behind every countless grain I’ve ever known.