Promise

From far away, he is a scar. He is hole in the seam of the sky, a piece of the darkness gathered beneath, the first blot of night. A shard of shadow borne by the sea.
On closer inspection, he is a man, an old one, standing on a twilit beach.

He is barefoot, and November has made the sand cool. He feels it sift between his toes and shade the crescents of his nails. Blue shadows wash over the rivers of his veins and the twisted valleys his seventy-nine years have left on his skin. He looks straight ahead.

The sea seethes and murmurs under his gaze. White foam spreads itself thin across the sand, stopping an inch before his toes. He shivers, and steps forward.
The water meets him at last. He lets it sink its freezing blades into his ankles. Goosebumps prickle up along his calves, beneath his rolled-up cargo pants. The cold subsides to a dull, thin burning.

Jimmy, says the sea, as he knew it would.
He exhales, swallows, takes another step. “No one has called me ‘Jimmy’ in a long time.”

Your mother. Always her.
“My mother made many mistakes.”

More wet rustling, rising and falling with the old man’s shoulders. The sea is up to his knees now, the water seeping into the edge of his pants, so that they stick to his legs, sending a fresh shock of cold through him. He’s heavy with it. He dips his fingers into the bitter water.
“What do you want?”

A wave, bigger than the rest, pushes into him, splashing up to his hips. He stumbles, just a little. “Well?”
We want what was promised.

“Promises can be broken.” With withered hands he reaches into his pockets, weighted with silver coins and sea glass, love letters and little white pills. “I have so much, you know. So many things.”
We want what was promised.

“There has to be something.” His toes are numb now, but still he shivers.
We want what was promised.

“But not by me!” He shouts it, with every scrap of air in him. He wheezes, then, so very small. The water laps at his chest, at his fluttering seagull heart. “Not by me.”
A love for a love. A grief for a grief. One drowning man for another. A deal is a deal and a choice is a choice.

“And she chose saving him every time.” He feels a different sort of salt sting his face, something warm.
The waves do not soften. The sea is the sea. A mother is a woman. A woman is a woman and a woman can love too many things.

“He wasn’t the right thing.”
Your mother is dead. You outlived her, outlived them both. Now you are alive and alone. “Lucky me.” His feet grip the sifting sand with all his might, propelling him forward.

Yes, says the sea. She wept for you, in the end. Isn’t that enough?

He shakes his head, just once. His smile is a waning moon. “Not for me.”Goodnight, Jimmy, says the sea, and the old man’s wind-swollen lips offer no answer. The numbness has spread now, up to his shoulders, muffling the screaming of his bones, so that when he finally slips his head under the water, he feels nothing, nothing at all.

by A.J.