Leafstorm
04-02-2008, 09:59 AM
After reading the obituaries at breakfast and not seeing my name, I figured I had at least another day to fill up, so I decided to do something I’d been thinking about for several moments: go to the ocean and see if I’d lost anything in a tide pool. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Tiny crabs inside purloined shells scuttled away when I stepped into the first tide pool I came to. The cold water felt illegal as it soaked my sneakers, socks, and pant legs. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I thought about the moon, and how the earth’s rotation was slowing down, the days growing longer, the universe expanding and cooling down, the gods departing, me growing older, and the tide flowing back to the sea. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Lemal!” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
An unknown voice shouting my name is always unnerving. Turning around and seeing no one behind me is worse. Realizing that a bright orange starfish had called to me was downright bizarre. It was submerged at the edge of the pool I was standing in. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Lemal!” she said again. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“What!” I replied. “No need to shout. I’m standing right next to you.” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“I am the ghost – ”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Bullshit!” I interrupted. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“All right,” said the starfish. “I lied. I admit it. Can you still trust me?”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“What are you talking about? You’re a starfish, and I don’t even know you. How do you know my name?” I started to leave. She reminded me of a former girlfriend, or a childhood friend, or an adulthood enemy. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“I love you!”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
That made me stop, sit on a rock, and take a good look at her. She was a blood star with five arms, one of them raised out of the water as if reaching out to me. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“You have no brain, no face, you don’t have sex, and you eat a clam by prying it open and shoving one of your two stomachs into the opening to devour your prey. What can you possibly know about love?” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
There was a long moment of silence. The upheld arm started to tremble; she was crying. I rose to leave again. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Of all the tide pools,” I said to her, trying to control my voice, “in all the towns, in all the world . . .” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
She continued to cry softly. “With the whole world crumbling, with the tide ebbing . . .” she said. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I sat back down on the wet rock. “I’m sorry.” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“May I show you something?” she asked with a last little sob and some bubbles. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I nodded. Remembering that she didn’t have eyes, I nodded again. Then I felt awful and said “Yes”. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“There’s a stream behind you. The tide always seems so greedy – dragging off junk with indifference. But one man’s junk-”
“Is another man’s treasure,” I finished. “Yeah, right.”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I stood and walked a few steps to the edge of a rivulet that was flowing swiftly across the beach and into the surf. A piece of driftwood shaped like a question mark flowed past me, then a styrofoam cup, a child’s mitten, an empty bottle of bourbon, a bribe, a two piano keys, a loss of innocence, a little blue fish cat’s toy, a compromise, the feather of a dove, a forlorn hope, a reed basket, and so on. It was all meaningless garbage to me – flotsam and jetsam of some past or future wreck. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Yet the tide’s impunity angered me. Pathetic as it was, maybe it really was someone’s treasure. Not mine. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
A plastic toy radio that at the press of a button converts to a Thompson submachine gun, a little bronze statue of a buffalo, with the end of one leg broken off, an orange Matchbox car – No. 45 . . .<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Not my treasure. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
A Kodak instamatic photo of a boy on a front porch, dressed for Easter, next to an inflated rabbit as tall as him, a photograph of Spock signed “Live Long and Prosper”, a buckeye . . .<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Never was. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
A Juicy Fruit gum wrapper, a birthday card . . . I snatched them both up from the stream, trembled as I opened the card and read it again, and could not make it any wetter with my tears . . .<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Not my fucking treasure! <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“What’s your point?” I asked the starfish when I’d returned to the tide pool. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Letting go,” was all she said. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“I refuse to learn that skill,” I replied. “I’m no one to judge, but stealing is stealing.” I noticed I was still holding the wet gum wrapper and birthday card. I dried them as best as I could on my pant leg and slipped them into a shirt pocket. “I hate the moon.” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I watched one of the tiny crabs do something I’d never seen before: it ventured out of its home. In search of a bigger and better shell, I suppose. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Will you do something for me?” asked the starfish. Her one arm was still raised. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“I need to go,” I said. “What?”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Pull my arm off.”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I finally saw what this was all about. It’s how a starfish reproduces asexually, and she needed my help. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Listen, I don’t have a good track record with – ” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“I’m not asking you to stay,” she interrupted. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“It’ll hurt.”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Yes. Both of us. My arm is covered with tiny sharp spines. But if you – ” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I seized the leg and twisted it off before she finished her sentence. My mom had done that once with a large bandaid on my arm – yanked it off before I could prepare. But who can ever really prepare? <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I laid the leg in the water beside her. Blood from my fingers colored the eddying water, mingling with hers. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
A few days later, finding myself still sucking in air – as a friend of mine, Dave, who lit his house and then shot himself, used to say – I returned to the beach, to the tide pool. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Her – calf? – was beside her, with four stubby new legs visible. Her new sprouting leg was just as short and pale. They looked as happy as a mother and child can be under the indifferent influences of time and motion, which are one and the same. We didn’t speak. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I went to the stream that flowed across the beach. I opened a brand new pack of Juicy Fruit gum and popped a stick into my mouth. The sweet smell gave me vertigo – it had been over thirty years since I smelled that fragrance on her breath, tasted that flavor on her lips. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I took out the birthday card that I’d thoroughly dried and made into a little canoe, with a toothpick and pencil outrigger. I placed it on the stream and watched it drift away, back toward the city, because the tide was coming in. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Tiny crabs inside purloined shells scuttled away when I stepped into the first tide pool I came to. The cold water felt illegal as it soaked my sneakers, socks, and pant legs. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I thought about the moon, and how the earth’s rotation was slowing down, the days growing longer, the universe expanding and cooling down, the gods departing, me growing older, and the tide flowing back to the sea. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Lemal!” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
An unknown voice shouting my name is always unnerving. Turning around and seeing no one behind me is worse. Realizing that a bright orange starfish had called to me was downright bizarre. It was submerged at the edge of the pool I was standing in. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Lemal!” she said again. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“What!” I replied. “No need to shout. I’m standing right next to you.” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“I am the ghost – ”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Bullshit!” I interrupted. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“All right,” said the starfish. “I lied. I admit it. Can you still trust me?”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“What are you talking about? You’re a starfish, and I don’t even know you. How do you know my name?” I started to leave. She reminded me of a former girlfriend, or a childhood friend, or an adulthood enemy. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“I love you!”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
That made me stop, sit on a rock, and take a good look at her. She was a blood star with five arms, one of them raised out of the water as if reaching out to me. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“You have no brain, no face, you don’t have sex, and you eat a clam by prying it open and shoving one of your two stomachs into the opening to devour your prey. What can you possibly know about love?” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
There was a long moment of silence. The upheld arm started to tremble; she was crying. I rose to leave again. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Of all the tide pools,” I said to her, trying to control my voice, “in all the towns, in all the world . . .” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
She continued to cry softly. “With the whole world crumbling, with the tide ebbing . . .” she said. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I sat back down on the wet rock. “I’m sorry.” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“May I show you something?” she asked with a last little sob and some bubbles. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I nodded. Remembering that she didn’t have eyes, I nodded again. Then I felt awful and said “Yes”. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“There’s a stream behind you. The tide always seems so greedy – dragging off junk with indifference. But one man’s junk-”
“Is another man’s treasure,” I finished. “Yeah, right.”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I stood and walked a few steps to the edge of a rivulet that was flowing swiftly across the beach and into the surf. A piece of driftwood shaped like a question mark flowed past me, then a styrofoam cup, a child’s mitten, an empty bottle of bourbon, a bribe, a two piano keys, a loss of innocence, a little blue fish cat’s toy, a compromise, the feather of a dove, a forlorn hope, a reed basket, and so on. It was all meaningless garbage to me – flotsam and jetsam of some past or future wreck. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Yet the tide’s impunity angered me. Pathetic as it was, maybe it really was someone’s treasure. Not mine. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
A plastic toy radio that at the press of a button converts to a Thompson submachine gun, a little bronze statue of a buffalo, with the end of one leg broken off, an orange Matchbox car – No. 45 . . .<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Not my treasure. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
A Kodak instamatic photo of a boy on a front porch, dressed for Easter, next to an inflated rabbit as tall as him, a photograph of Spock signed “Live Long and Prosper”, a buckeye . . .<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Never was. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
A Juicy Fruit gum wrapper, a birthday card . . . I snatched them both up from the stream, trembled as I opened the card and read it again, and could not make it any wetter with my tears . . .<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Not my fucking treasure! <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“What’s your point?” I asked the starfish when I’d returned to the tide pool. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Letting go,” was all she said. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“I refuse to learn that skill,” I replied. “I’m no one to judge, but stealing is stealing.” I noticed I was still holding the wet gum wrapper and birthday card. I dried them as best as I could on my pant leg and slipped them into a shirt pocket. “I hate the moon.” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I watched one of the tiny crabs do something I’d never seen before: it ventured out of its home. In search of a bigger and better shell, I suppose. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Will you do something for me?” asked the starfish. Her one arm was still raised. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“I need to go,” I said. “What?”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Pull my arm off.”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I finally saw what this was all about. It’s how a starfish reproduces asexually, and she needed my help. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Listen, I don’t have a good track record with – ” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“I’m not asking you to stay,” she interrupted. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“It’ll hurt.”<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
“Yes. Both of us. My arm is covered with tiny sharp spines. But if you – ” <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I seized the leg and twisted it off before she finished her sentence. My mom had done that once with a large bandaid on my arm – yanked it off before I could prepare. But who can ever really prepare? <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I laid the leg in the water beside her. Blood from my fingers colored the eddying water, mingling with hers. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
A few days later, finding myself still sucking in air – as a friend of mine, Dave, who lit his house and then shot himself, used to say – I returned to the beach, to the tide pool. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
Her – calf? – was beside her, with four stubby new legs visible. Her new sprouting leg was just as short and pale. They looked as happy as a mother and child can be under the indifferent influences of time and motion, which are one and the same. We didn’t speak. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I went to the stream that flowed across the beach. I opened a brand new pack of Juicy Fruit gum and popped a stick into my mouth. The sweet smell gave me vertigo – it had been over thirty years since I smelled that fragrance on her breath, tasted that flavor on her lips. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
I took out the birthday card that I’d thoroughly dried and made into a little canoe, with a toothpick and pencil outrigger. I placed it on the stream and watched it drift away, back toward the city, because the tide was coming in. <o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>