Peace

The weathering pebbles in the yard take the place of grass and scrap against my flowered sandals, leaving a chalky residue against my soles. Fishing pole in one hand and my father’s father’s callused hand in the other, I lengthen my stride to keep up. Bright green sea grape leaves shade my sun-screened, seven year old, baby face. Wearing my favorite pink sundress, I trip over my own feet, practically skipping down the gleaming pavement. And finally I see it; the old dock that stands proudly over the open ocean as if it owns the place. Here is where I will learn to fish. This is my memory.

 Now, the peebles still scraping, the seagrapes still shading, the road still gleaming, the rickety dock waits. I’m ten years older, still wearing my new favorite pink sundress. My left hand sways with the natural cadence of my stride, my right, loosely clutched in my father’s palm. We walk to the end of the street, where the water is, together.  I listen quietly as my father’s voice fills the salty air with his memory. 

We finally reach the end, but my father isn’t done telling his story. I notice a change—my dad transforming in my palm. His rough, aged hand grows softer and his sun-speckled skin seems to paste over with a tint identical to my seventeen year old skin. Except, he is much tanner. The wasps of faint grey hair mysteriously vanish and his locks shine with a youthful strawberry blond in the sunbeams. He was back.

Back to adolescence when his father walked him to the end of Dove Street to show him simplicity.  He is sixteen, peering over the edge of the dock at his grinning reflection in the crystal Key’s water. His bright blue eyes glimmer with a youthful enthusiasm for the vast expanse before him now. He is thin and almost awkward and I’m pretty sure his voice just squeaked. The blue transitive liquid brushes the side of the dock, gently painting the timeless barnacles. I don’t think I exist anymore, at least not to him.

 A little orange boat pulls up to the dock with another teenage boy controlling the outboard motor. My father leaps off the dock, splashing the boater with a belly flop. His stomach fire red and smile, laughing, he pulls himself into the “Orange Peel”, as it has been playfully named. My father, the older of the two, shoves his brother out of the way and takes control of the little bobbing motorboat. And they disappear behind the corner of mangroves; I still hear their voices. I can’t make out their words, though.

I smile, step right, and bump into my dad standing, still. But, I realize he’s aged. He looks like his father. He’s back. Back to when he was a proud grandfather walking his skipping granddaughter to the end of Dove Street to show her simplicity. The faint strawberry blond hints sparkle amongst the sea of grey hair. His fisherman physique stands strong for an old man, but his wrinkled skin radiates sun exposure. His piercing blue eyes seem to spot fish twenty feet away and his hand quickly reaches for my fishing pole. He mechanically baits the hook, castes the rod, and hands it back for me to fish. I hear his voice whisper in my ear to stop dancing around.

I sit down immediately, softly though, and everything gets real still. I impatiently resist the urge to move, when my fishing rod is almost yanked out of my lightly gripped hands. I think he recognized my overexcitement, my grandfather that is, and helped me reel in my fish. It was 4 inches long and not much of a catch for his standards, but he acted as though my little wiggling catch was a fifty-pound dolphin, struggling in all its beautiful strength to leap off the dock and to get back to simplicity.

“I’m proud of you little girl”

I smile and look down, realizing that a fishing rod was no longer in my hand. My father’s palm was. He’s back. Back to when he walked his daughter to the end of Dove Street to show her the simplicity his father, loved. With his fraying khaki shorts and favorite t-shirt he claims isn’t stained, he stands strong. His blue piercing eyes gaze through his polarized sunglasses at the vast ocean with not a boat in sight. Those eyes are the one thing that hasn’t changed. The brim of his North Sail baseball cap shadows his light scruff from the unshaven weekend in the Keys.  I look at my dad and smile. I breathe in the air filled with unspoken memories and pure ocean silence. It is peace.