BURIED IN THE SAND

(Original Image by Kunj Parekh)

I walk upon the beach and see bodies buried in the sand. Their heads blossom above ground, enough to speak, enough for me to hear them. They say their lines over and over again with the same fervor. And, when I step too close, their arms suddenly sprout and grab at me. They wish to pull me down where they can sink their teeth in and feast upon my wayward spirit.

I see now that the heavens showed mercy to Lot’s wife as she looked back on the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah and transformed into a pillar of salt, as crude as it may seem. For she too would have been pulled down into a horrific memory of charred and broken bodies for the rest of her life. To look back, for even a second, can be enough to spoil the present and the future. For example, when you’re 20 years old, you might wish you were 10 when your parents shielded you from the stress of adulthood. When you’re 30, you might wish you were 20 with your freedom and youth still ahead of you. When you’re 40, you might wish you were 30, sober and headstrong as you should have been when considering that dull desk job as a temporary stay… If only the heavens showed us such mercy, we could avoid the pain of nostalgia, instead we look back gratuitously with a zip and a gusto as though our mighty wills could turn back time. I think a little bit of salt is in order for the forever dreamers.

I see bodies buried in the sand, the budding faces of men and women I can’t help but recognize. In their eyes manifests a single defining memory when our two souls converged, and yet their eyes, their mouths, their words are angry. They want me to know I've let them down, that I was too self-involved to see my destructive impact. I feel Lot’s wife licking my toes. I want to look back, but I shouldn’t.

I was just a stupid kid raised as a spiritual invalid through the church and an oppressive father. I held myself up as a golden calf at their behest. I was bred to be special. But, I didn’t turn out that way. I didn’t even turn out ordinary. I turned out obtuse. People nowadays don’t know what to make of me. The barflies find me too straight, and the straight crowd finds me too rough around the edges. The liberals find me too conservative, and the conservatives find me too sentimental. The Christians find me too pedantic (for Divine experience is free from the bounds of logic), and the Atheists find me too mealy-mouthed. I readily admit I don't have the cure for your hatred. My mere existence is enough to churn the sulfur in your souls. But, I’ve long since grown into a stupid adult and know at least to keep my distance from the unrelenting grudges that lie in wait.

Still, I see bodies buried in the sand, faces wilting. Angry or not, I collect their petals with trembling fingers. I strike my hands into the sand and dig around them, so that they might escape and join me. Only then does the root snap and their heads roll down the side of the dune. They are not people anymore, but the bitter fruit of old sins. I step over them and continue on into the ocean, diving deep enough so that I cannot see, so that I can taste the saltiness of the water, and kiss Lot’s wife goodnight.