The Closer Shore

If he’d have moved, she’d have known he was awake – at least that was how he gauged the situation. He was just a boy of little consequence to anyone but himself. He couldn’t recall just how he’d arrived in this precarious situation, but he was betting it had something to do with a nagging ambition that always seemed to be pushing him just that much further than he’d have ordinarily preferred. At the moment, he lay on a rice floor, surrounded by rice walls, with an empty bowl and glass of rice just beside him. He wasn’t alone.

The sliding glass doors let in cool air and the heavy scent of spring. The morning was cool, and he could tell she was running a fever – face flushed with color and damp brow. Pushing back the futon, he rose to close the shade to block out the early morning light. Closed, the blue tints of the morning dulled to quiet hues and warmer tones. At the movement, she began to stir; he felt he must go. Leaving as he went, he paused, realizing it was the wrong thing to do. But he was already beyond returning – her sickness had become his.

It was yet early, but the sun, higher than one might have thought, stung his eyes. The wind was strong as he made his way along the breakers. Men were out in their boats trolling but were already picking up and making their way across to the other side. The air was clear, revealing the scenery so often blotted out by smog or moisture. On another day, he might have paused to take it in, but today all he felt was the cold spray from the crashing waves.

Making his way as he did, he thought of a song he’d heard sometime ago – it must have been something lilting, a lullaby perhaps, but the melody escaped him. Turning instead, as he did, to cross the street, he kept his feet moving. To himself he wondered where his concentration had wondered – he’d been somewhere else just the moment before. It had been a cozy room, he hadn’t been lonely, and there had been someone who seemed to have needed him. Just now, thinking on it seemed required an awfully great effort, and so he kept picking up his feet and putting them down again. He was headed for the tracks.