Sandcastle Man
Sandcastle Man lives at the sea, and will never live anywhere else. “The sea,” he mumbles to himself, his mind corroded by the salty air. “I am the sea and the sea is me. Sea me, see me. See me!”
Sandcastle Man has been hard at work. His face is puffy and red with the effort of trying to build something that matters. Crabs scurry by, accustomed to his messes. They’re temporary, after all. Gone by morning, one after the next.
A half-dead squid has washed ashore, and in a delirium of delusion, Sandcastle Man pulls it from the briny tangle of weeds at his feet. Its slick, grasping limbs thrill him, and he places it safely above the water line to watch him. “My little mermaid!” he declares. The squid grows limp and still.
Sandcastle Man digs and scoops and molds and smooths. Plastic buckets and shovels litter the beach, a testament to the sincerity of his conviction. But under his gnarled hands, all that takes shape are crumbling, wet lumps.
Finally finished, he whoops and dances and calls to the moon, who ignores him. “This one! This one this one this one!” Seagulls glance then glide on. The tide comes in for the kill.
Sandcastle Man lives at the sea, and will never live anywhere else.