Just One More Day

You watched your grandchildren as they ran laughing on the sand. They jumped over old tires and huge piles of garbage like it was a game. That it was normal. And for them, it was.

There was no longer white foam stretching out to meet the white sand. Instead it was sludge filled with debris, and could be met after walking through squelchy mud.

They said that we shouldn't go swimming in it for safety precautions. As if anybody in their right mind would want to swim in that gunk.

You looked to the ground, to escape the harsh reality of what had become of Huntington Beach, but instead your eyes were met with shiny filaments of plastic mixed in with the sand. Ugh.

You felt tears prickle at the edge of your old, cloudy eyes, but you blink them away. Your family will not see you cry over something they cannot remember.

"Hey there." It was your daughter Helen and she had Timothy, who was eleven months old planted on her hip. "Your looking especially down today."

"Ah, just enjoying the beautiful view that mother nature has graced us with," you said. Your voice was warbled, and you knew you were reaching your end. But you were glad that you still had some of your sarcasm left from your younger years.

You watched as your granddaughter Leah, put a plastic bowl on her head, and pretended it was a crown. 

You could feel Helen's look of worry on your face. "Are you okay? I know that your remembering..." She spoke hesitantly, as if she didn't want to trip me off.

You set your jaw. "Children!" You called out in your hoarse and wobbly voice. Leah and Luke stopped playing by the tire and rushed over to you. They sat on the polluted ground, their round faces puffed out and red.

"Yes?" They asked.

"I am going to tell you a story. A story of Huntington Beach. Before all of this garbage was here." They leaned in eager, most people didn't talk about it. They just sat back, and waited on the scientists to fix it.

You pulled out a photo, wrinkled and a bit faded from all the times that you had looked at it. "The year was 2018," you began. "Trump was president.  Politics were crazy. But the beach was a safe haven."

Your grandchildren stared in amazement at the photo.  "I would come to surf, with all of my friends. That's them in that photo." We had our surfboards by our sides at sunset.

"The air was salty, and sand would get everywhere, but the sand squishing between your toes, the feeling of standing on your board, and feeling a powerful wave under you. Those are the most magical feelings in the world."

"And there isn't a day where I don't miss it. To feel that warm golden sun, and the spray of the water. Just one more day." You looked out at the sludge. Caused by plastic, and you let a single tear run down your face. "Just one."