Truly Living

In my memories, we still raced to build walls of sand and moats around the sculptures that my father and uncle had made with us earlier that day. Sensations danced through my mind: the harsh breeze whipping across the shoreline; the waves crashing in the distance; complaints tumbling from my brother's mouth about the sun and his fair skin. I knew that both the airplane and the mermaid would not survive the rising tide. We all knew, of course, but saving them wasn't the point of our endeavor. The anticipation of the destruction was what kept us building, working, constructing. Our hands and shovels toiled for hours, but, once the water reached the outer wall, we stopped to watch nature reclaim the sand we had rearranged. 

The coffin was open before me, my father off comforting his mother. My surroundings dulled lightly, my uncle's corpse suddenly my only focus. Memories sloshed around my mind as my hand slowly, subconsciously extended to touch his bare skin.

Unlike the embraces I remembered, the skin was cold and stiff. Despite, I didn't move or pull away. My seven-year-old mind merely considered the situation. This skin-shell exactly resembled my uncle, albeit paler, but it wasn't him anymore. He couldn't feel the warmth of my fingers or hear the mourning of his mother, his siblings, his old friends and ex-wife.

Like the sand sculptures, he only survived in memory, taken away at thirty-five by the ocean of time. Eventually, everyone I had ever known would be swept away by the same current. One day, even I would be reclaimed. 

As this realization solidified, I withdrew my hand with a newfound calmness. 

This was death, and the knowledge of its inevitable arrival inexplicably comforted me.

For the first time in my young life, I truly felt alive.