Independence Day

We laid ourselves on cotton sheets, spread over the sand, watching choppy water and kids in bathing suits walk past. A cloudy independence day at the beach, left with nothing to do but nap. So we spread ourselves out on the cloths, shielding our eyes from the light, wrapping ourselves in towels, kindergarteners going down for a rest. And when the breeze kicked up, it was time to walk and find ourselves the perfect little bar, filled with old Irish men, mostly retired policemen, watching hotdog eating contests and the horse races, buying each other rounds and smoking fat cigars. The old man in the stool next to me sipped on a Coors Light from a small, round, stemmed glass. He introduced himself as Burney, and his age-creased neck and kind Irish eyes reminded me of my Grandfather. We talked about books. He asked me if I’d read The Grapes of Wrath, and he asked me to tell him about Steinbeck’s life. And then he told me about a short story by O’Henry that I’d never read. And as he told me about this man in the story, laying in his death bed, watching the leaves of a tree out his window fall, tears filled his eyes, and he took many pauses to catch his composure and then he did start to cry as he finished the story: A painted leaf saved the man’s life. I pressed my hand against his shoulder, the bones of his shoulder blade so delicate, frail, who made it so easy to talk, really talk, about big ideas on a holiday afternoon.