If a man should stand upon a rock facing the sea and if he should speak to the foaming, wide expanse that gave birth to the sandcrawlers and swallowed them whole whenever they returned, what should he say? How does one speak to a denying mother? How does one speak to God? If the whole of the ocean came crashing down upon him as he stood upon that rock, if the water lay waste the beach and then, dragging its remains in the ebb, scar the land it created, should he fear getting wet or fear never drying? Should he fear life’s end or fear never dying?
Our mortality immortalizes us. Among the swirling lights in the night sky, stars of a certain age and condition emit one last call to the radio telescopes of Carnarvon before they sign off. The message is unclear, less a thought than a gasp. There are so many other lights to turn toward, rather than a few newly dark spots. But we linger on them for a moment and remember those lights, as someone else someday will remember ours.
I have stood on this beach, on this island, wearing what was left of me, holding on to some memory that will not go quietly. Each grain of sand sifting through my toes is a universe unto itself. Each universe knowing the gross scale of existence and barely acknowledging that things within shall live and die, only acknowledging that they must. If I should stand on that rock I shall say that, if it is my turn to be swallowed whole, I will first make one last call to Carnarvon.