Little Things: A Story of Old Man Walters

Children have a way of moving that I’ve forgotten over these long years. It’s like the challenge of going back to explain the basics to a beginner after you’ve mastered the art. Though all I’m a master of is old age. Every little thing I didn’t deal with, all the emotions, ruminating thoughts, failed ventures, they’ve stuck in my bones. Made me slow.

I watch my grandson float over the sand, his light steps barely leaving an imprint. I am behind, an observer perched on a wall. 

“Don’t go too far!” I rasp as the boy breaks into the oncoming surf. 

He has seen something and pounces, putting me in mind of a kitten after a light mark or a string. 

I understand. Some part of me does anyway. The ocean is so quick to take back the little gifts it offers. 

The boy has succeeded in pilfering his treasure. He holds it up, a bright smile lighting his face as he examines the shell with an intensity beyond his years. Turning it over and over again in the morning rays. 

I’m puzzled by the wonderment on the child’s face. Surely there are shells here in abundance. Why this one? But perhaps there is more to wonder at before the world grows tired with familiarity.

Perhaps it’s still there. If I can remember to be a beginner again. Old eyes. Old bones. 

He’s running now, his little body growing bigger and bigger until he reaches me breathless.

“Look!” he cries, reverently placing a delicate little white shell into my hand. A single orange stripe runs through the middle. 

“Oh, very nice,” I respond in that adult way that appeases children. Then my grandson begins chattering at me. I’m tempted to let my mind run adrift for a bit, nodding at the appropriate moments, but catch myself when I hear the word “dad” pass his lips. My grandson is trying to tell me something important.

Back when he was attempting to be a father, before he gave into whatever urge took him away, leaving us with his kid, he’d played with his son on this beach. They’d built a sand castle, and my grandson emphatically insists that this was the very shell they’d carefully selected to adorn the castle.

“It came back,” said my grandson, his little eyes gleaming with excitement. “My shell came back.”