A Day Seaside
Five new ships linger on the horizon. They weren’t there yesterday. These are bigger than the ones before. I can’t see their decks. But they look bigger.
I run home through the dunes in the cold morning and past the wild grasses and reeds that buffer the sea and into the town with its power lines and cottages and cafes. None of those things feel like they used to. It is mostly empty now. There are soldiers though, our soldiers. I know some of their faces. They used to do things in the town. Bakers and chefs and carpenters and teachers and plumbers. Now they hold guns and wave to me in the morning when I come back from the shore.
“Niko!” one shouts out. He raises his hand and salutes me. “What’s new?”
“Have you seen the ships”
“Which ones?” another soldier asks.
“The big ones. They were there yesterday.”
“We’ve heard chatter on the radio.”
“How many you see?”
“Five. Could be more.”
“Make sure you tell your dad.”
I run past them. They shout their goodbyes. I extend a hand behind me, turning my hand and watching them diminish until they stop waving my way. I’d like to believe they’ll be back and working in a few weeks. That we can put this behind us. But I’m not so sure.
My home isn’t what it used to be. It still stands. I am grateful for that. But we’ve boarded the windows with wood from our fence. My dad has a saw, and we had power for a while. But the last few days he had to switch to a bow saw. There isn’t much light inside. Mama has a solar light she ordered years ago. I see it charging on cement steps leading up to the front door. Then mama opens the door.
“Anything new?”
“Five new ships.”
“Big ones?”
“Bigger.”
“And the birds? How are they?”
“Didn’t see any.”
“Father’s inside making coffee.”
I hug mama. She presses my face against her stomach. Her apron smells like yeast. My cheeks begin to thaw.
“I love you, Niko.”
Father stands over the sink. Not that it’s much use these days. The water has been shut off. We have a good supply of fresh water, though. Coffee is one of those luxuries that is maintained. At least in my family. The whistle of the kettle over a propane stove next to the window sill stirs Father. He rushes to quiet it. Then he turns to me with the steaming kettle in his hand.
“You saw the ships?”
“Yes.”
“How big were they?”
“Much bigger than the others.”
“Get a look at the deck guns?”
“No, sir.”
“Sir? This isn’t a briefing, Niko.”
“Sorry.”
“You can still call me father.”
“I know.”
“Or papa.”
“I know.”
“It’s never too serious to call me father.”
He pours the water into the coffee press, smiles at me, places the kettle back on the stove. He retreats to his study. The kettle whistles ever so quietly.
