When the tide goes out

What's left at the bottom

Dear friend,

A shadow passes overhead and my neck cranes upward. Against the pale March sky, a bald eagle circles, its wingspan casting ripples of darkness across the snow-patched ground.

When it descends, its massive talons stretch forward like gnarled fingers, grasping the highest branch of the riverside pine. The branch bows, trembles, then steadies as the eagle settles, arranging its feathers around itself like a cloak, its white head sharp against the darkening afternoon.

The community center door creaks open, releasing a cloud of warm air scented with creamed corn and pork chops—remnants of last night's Lions’ Club dinner. I stamp snow from my boots, unwinding my scarf as laughter echoes from the office down the hall.

"Those socks!" A voice catches me mid-unwrap. "Are those paddles on them? Tennis rackets?"

I glance down at my feet. "Padel rackets, actually."

Marc's eyes crinkle at the corners, blue as summer lake water. "Padel? Like paddle tennis? Never tried it."

"Not exactly — but close. It's addictive, but there's nowhere to play around here."

"My place." He taps his chest with his thumb. "Five acres backing up to the creek. We could build a court right where my failed vegetable garden is. Perfect spot."

Before I can respond, he's describing the beach volleyball courts he envisions for summer—sand trucked in from the quarry, nets strung between cedar posts, evening games with tiki torches. His hands sketch the dimensions in the air between us.

The classroom smells of floor polish and lingering coffee. Boots line the wall, replaced by a parade of slippers—Marc's are navy blue with leather soles. His gym bag, army green with a faded logo, claims the same corner each session. His water bottle, dented aluminum, catches the fluorescent light.

"Remember, everyone," our teacher calls, "imagine eggs cradled in your armpits. Gentle now."

Marc's wiry frame shifts, shoulders softening. His concentration shows in the slight furrow between his brows as he mirrors the movements, precise with intent.

Later, the sound of chair legs scraping across the café floor as we pull up tables together. Through the plate glass window, winter light pools across scattered scarves and gloves saving seats. Marc returns from the counter with chai in a ceramic mug painted with mountains.

"Who's got stories today?" he asks, settling into the wooden chair that always seems too small for his enthusiasm.

The others speak of grandchildren's hockey tournaments, Florida vacations, doctor appointments. Marc listens, leans forward, asks questions that make even routine anecdotes sound remarkable. When they mention their adult children—engineers, teachers, accountants—his gaze shifts to me.

"And you're working from here now? Video calls with Tokyo at midnight and London at dawn?" Wonder inflects his voice, as if I'm describing life on Mars rather than remote work.

I explain my day's schedule, the virtual offices, the projects spanning time zones.

"Remarkable," he says, tapping the rim of his mug. "In my day, engineering meant being chained to a drafting table." He lifts his chai. "To tai chi chai tea!" The rim of his mug clinks against mine, his crossed front teeth visible in his wide smile.

---

Alone in my kitchen, the blue glow of my laptop illuminated graham cracker crumbs scattered across the counter. I turned my video off during the quarterly planning call, muted myself as I crushed the crackers into the bottom of the silver pan, the rolling pin's wooden handles smooth in my palms.

The sweetened condensed milk poured in thick ribbons, pooling in corners before I tilted the pan to spread it evenly. Butterscotch chips melted slightly against my fingertips as I arranged them, followed by chocolate morsels, coconut shreds, and walnut pieces—each adding texture, dimension, sweetness [0].

In the morning, the knife cut cleanly through the cooled bars, each square perfect in its layered simplicity. The Tupperware container, bought from the kitchenware shop on Main Street next to the old pharmacy, sealed with a satisfying snap.

At the community center, the wall clock's minute hand inches past the fifteen mark. Our teacher steps to the center spot—Marc's spot. The room quiets.

"I have news." His voice wavers. "Marc's wife called an hour ago. He died in his sleep last night. His heart."

The room fills with a collective inhale that doesn't seem to find its exhale.

"Let's honor him with silence."

My vision blurs as tears form, hot against cold cheeks. I imagine Marc's gym bag leaning against the wall, waiting for an owner who won't return. His water bottle catching light. His blue-eyed gaze following instructions. His hands sketching imaginary volleyball courts in the air.

His questions echo: What's San Fransisco really like? Do you miss having colleagues nearby? Have you ever been to Australia? His curiosity wrapped around each question like gentle hands cradling something precious.

My lungs feel suddenly hollow, as if the air inside has solidified. Tears track silently down my face as we shift weight from foot to foot, moving through the forms. Each movement feels like a goodbye, each breath a remembrance.

After class, his empty spot remains exactly that—empty. No navy slippers, no gym bag, no chai tea suggestion. Just absence, profound as a held breath.

My guru once told me over tea that his greatest wish was to exit life like a magician—present and vibrant one moment, completely gone the next. No lingering, no fade, just one final magnificent disappearance.

Now, Marc has performed this very trick. Walking home along the mudflats where eagles nest, I spot wisps of steam rising from the water's surface where warmer currents meet cold air. They twist, curl upward, vanish—there, then not there. Like the smoke from my morning incense caught in the bathroom mirror, like the steam from chai tea raised in a toast.

When the tide goes out, it doesn't just reveal what's been discarded or forgotten. Sometimes, what remains on the undershore are perfect shells, sea glass polished by time, impressions of creatures who moved on but left their mark in the sand—temporary yet somehow permanent, gone yet undeniably here.

Until next Sunday,

Lara

[0] These are magic bars if you’re wondering. It’s the recipe on the can of sweetened condensed milk.