The Sand Collector
A MOMENT OF PATERNAL CLARITY

Eventually, my dad broke the silence with “So I read in the paper that a kid, twenty-seven years old, was out in the bay, he dove off his skiff, broke his neck, and died”. I couldn’t help my laughter in response to his awkward tale jutting through our quiet drive; awkward in that we were driving in my truck, which my dad loved to do, on a beautiful July day, after returning from the boatyard where we had seemingly just sold his sailboat that had been on the market for three long years. What felt to me like a shared triumphant moment was clearly not. I responded through my laughter, saying, “Pop, you tell the most chipper stories – you know that?” His disposition didn’t budge even with the potential reveal I had offered; instead, he doubled down. “He did, I’ve got the obituary at home, I’ll show it to you”. As he continued with the particulars of the story, I felt my relevance sink under each layer of detail, and my place in this scene devolved to the childlike role that I know so well, having no weight or bearing on what was happening around me. I was again a tiny prop on my father’s stage. My attention focused entirely on the road as I tuned out everything I was hearing – at some point, I noticed he had stopped talking and we drove along in silence. And this exchange would be just another grain of sand, similar in color and texture to the many other grains on a gritty beach where my father and I, despite all potentially obvious circumstances, just could not connect. Although this beach is rough and chafing, we walk it together all the time – it is our only exchange, which is better than no exchange. 

 

We finished our drive and settled back into daily routines. I returned to my project, painting the ceiling of my father’s porch, which was getting finishing touches. Pop went to the living room to watch classic movies, which is the cornerstone of his retirement. Suddenly, he appeared in front of me as he must have heard the ruckus I was making. He arched his back and gawked up at the new light blue ceiling and bellowed his approval, showering it and me with compliments. I was stunned. Praise from my Pop, especially through labor, is the rarest of rare pearls, and I was doing my best to relax my widening eyes as I sealed paint cans and gathered drop cloths. We soon found ourselves on the porch sofa, beaming up at the fresh paint, his approvals continued. We were sharing a moment, and it suddenly hit me; we were both focused on the same thing at the same time. After all these years, the root of our miscommunication was finally laid bare – divergent focus.

 

As it was a fresh coat of paint in the same color that existed before, it had no history, so there was no critique or derivative opinion to offer. We just sat in a shared calm moment – it was lovely. However, it didn’t last nearly long enough, at least for me, as my dad popped off the couch with “I’ll go get that obituary of that kid so you can read it.” I was a little irked that our moment was being interrupted by such a random, trivial thing. I responded with “Pop, I don’t want to read that – don’t bother,” hoping we could return to the serenity of our haint blue ceiling. As he sat, out of the corner of his mouth, in a register just above a whisper came “Well, you gotta be careful, you’re out on that water too.” My eyes snapped wide; I was quietly stunned, remembering our conversation in my truck hours before, its jagged awkwardness realigned into a clean, precise, genuine expression of concern. His expression was deformed by many generations of New England repression and parenting, which combined tough love and neglect, in the hope that self-reliance would be the result. But it was there, thinner than dental floss, and my dad’s execution was absolute shit, but it was there; undeniable, an expression of love and concern. We sat on the porch, in a very different kind of silence, “I’ll be careful, pop . . . I promise”. 

 

So now I stand on that course, gritty beach that my dad and I walk every day, and contemplate all those grains of sand. Are they all really so rough? Is this the beach I thought it was? Is this our beach – or is this my beach? There is no time to investigate all those grains of sand, as time is so precious. I catch myself in my own metaphor, gawking down at the ground, not seeing the waves, the dunes, sky, and sea – and without all those things, the beach is just a desert. I make a promise to myself that I hope I will keep; I will look up, feel the breeze, and smell the air – take in all that is offered. See the man I am walking with and leave the sand behind. 

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E.A. Hathaway