“Hey, hon.”
The waitress, early 20s I guessed, smiled.
“Coffee?”
“Yes. And 2 eggs fried hard, 2 pieces of bacon, and
grits.”
“Add toast and that’s a number 6.”
“Whole wheat.”
She delivered the order to the cook and came back with
the coffee.
“That’s a different looking jewelry box.”
“Oh, not for jewelry.”
“Is that a fish?”
“Yes, a salmon. The box was used to deliver salmon from
British Columbia.”
She looked uncertain.
“In Canada.”
“Nice looking.”
She didn’t ask what I’m carrying in it if anything. I’m not
sure if I would have said since I’m unsure of the protocol for something like
this. My younger brother’s ashes. I didn’t think it was right to keep
it—him—the ashes out in the car while I had breakfast.
His will said ashes scattered at Copper Inlet. He told me
himself the last time I saw him. Near the end. Very near. We fished there a lot
when we only had an hour or less.
So I’m brought him—the ashes—down from Raleigh. To catch
an outgoing tide.
Our older brother thought it perverse.
“We’ve got a damn family plot. Same graveyard, same plot,
over a hundred years. Ashes in the ocean. Whatever for?”
“He wanted it that way.”
“He couldn’t just go along with—“
“Not your call. End of story.”
“Well, there’s going to be a headstone.”
“Fine.”
I knew why Mark wanted a final connection to the water—to
the fishing. The fishing we talked about during his final month. Talked about a
lot.
Breakfast was set down in front of me. I put the box next
to me on the seat.
He managed to laugh—actually laugh—when we talked out getting
ourselves into a school of small bonefish when we were boys. It was early afternoon
and the Florida sun was searing and our little boat rocked at anchor and bam!,
the frenzy started.
We both were using John silver spoons and both had
strikes at the same time. The fish were easily hauled in and released, and
bam!, we had fish on. Over and over and over again.
Within minutes we were casting only 10-feet or so. In the
shallow water we could see the fish streaking about wildly. Mark soon tired and
just set his rod on the gunnel and let his lure drop. Bam!
He tried to shake the fish off, but to no avail. He laid
down on the bottom of the boat while the fish thrashed about.
“Mark! Mark! You need to get that fish in. Mark!”
I had to take his rod and release the fish gulping for
its life.
When I reminded Mark how he just quit and left that fish
floundering, we both laughed.
He got so tired looking last year. The fatigue showed in
his eyes, the droop of his mouth, the slump in his shoulders. A lot of times
when sitting with me, he just let his head drop toward his chest.
Soon enough he would be bedridden.
I paid my bill and took the box with me to the car. I
figured about 20 or so minutes to the inlet.
Traffic was light enough, my mind kept looping back to
his last days.
“I won that dolphin tournament out of Edisto.” Mark
nodded toward a plaque on the living room wall.
“Under 20 pounds. Weak.”
“It was big enough.”
“Well, yes, but still weak.”
I cringed after repeating the word. He could barely lift
his head to nod.
I parked on the island side and grabbed the box. It
occurred to me that maybe there was a law against throwing ashes off the
bridge.
About a third of the way out on the bridge—the tide clearly
ebbing—I turned toward the ocean. There was a light sea breeze. I took the top
off the box and set it by my feet.
Maybe I should have said something about his life, offered
words to capture his spirit, but I couldn’t think it through in the moment.
“Here you go, Mark.”
I shook the box out over the railing and the ashes on the
breeze were pushed back under the bridge and out of sight on the tide.
Greenville 2023
