The waves push up on the sand, I am careful to walk just inland of their apex and watch the water retreat. Now that I have raised my sons, buried my father, I struggle with a ragged sense of incompleteness. How does the ocean never tire of its waves? From what endless source of energy does it draw? What does it hope to achieve? I walk past a tangled clump of seaweed, marooned on the sand. I note with some satisfaction that not a single piece of plastic has come ashore with it. Ted’s institute achieved some measure of success from its massive pollution prevention campaign on this stretch of beach. Ted must feel more fulfilled, must not experience this hollowness I feel.
Am I just hungry? I walk as far as the next lifeguard tower and turn around. Or should I go shopping? Out to the library? I stop and watch two surfers paddle past the waves. Three young men wait in the calm waters beyond, alert for the next big wave that will challenge them, and if they are lucky, take them into shore with a satisfying thrill.
I miss the times Andrew and I used to sit and talk, watching Michael surf. I squat down and run my fingers through the sand. Don’t hold to those memories. Doesn’t the future always generate itself? Don’t more experiences, more pleasures always come?
I continue home, climbing the stairs of the pedestrian bridge that crosses the freeway, almost wishing I were rushing somewhere with purpose like the countless cars beneath me.
I approach the building; a car pulls out of the parking garage, a child shouts from one of the balconies above, a man with a turban approaches the bank of mailboxes next to the stairwell. I am surprised to see the maroon turban, the full beard of a South Asian man, as my neighbors are exclusively white and Latino. I approach the stairwell and notice he doesn’t have a mailbox key. He is not retrieving his own mail, but holding an envelope in his hand, seeking out a mailbox.
I slow down, waiting to see which box he chooses. He seems to hesitate in front of each one.
I pause before I get to the stairs. “Can I help you?” I ask, wondering what business this stranger has being here.
He turns, surprised, looks me in the eye and quickly looks to the ground. “Excuse me,” he says. “I am only looking for a certain mailbox.”
“I can see that. Which one?”
His beard is streaked with grey, and a few errant eyebrows have turned white above the eyes that I see for just a moment. I have avoided South Asians for two decades now, but I remember something of their hospitality.
“I know almost everyone in the building,” I say more generously, “I can probably help you find the mailbox.”
“In fact,” he pauses, “I am looking for Kathryn…Capen.”
“I’m Kathryn,” I say, startled. He stands still, curiously unhurried. I look at his cheap shoes, his hands deeply soiled like a mechanic’s. I look past him, quickly scanning the driveway for his car, or some other person, some sign of danger. “Who are you?”
He does not answer. I see the envelope in his hand, a few words on the front, no stamp in the corner.
“Is it you?” I say quietly, almost a whisper. “Are you the one who brings these envelopes to me?” The hollowness of the morning fills; the future generating itself with shocking speed.
He shakes his head, the bulk of the turban seems to make the gesture more emphatic. “This is the first time I have come in person.” He stands there in front of me, a tall man, shoulders rolling forward so he looks almost contrite as he holds out the envelope. I can read clearly, To the Family of Rashid Siddique.
I take a step back, prepare to flee. He reaches out, offering the envelope. Then he looks up and I see his eyes again. I know them. His paralyzing gaze sets my heart racing. I can think only of the most irrational question. “Are you Rashid Siddique?”
The man closes his eyes draws a deep inhalation and looks at me again. “I used to be.”