From here, I can see the rows of wooden tables at the bar-restaurant, the bookstore with the modern honeycomb windows, the pizza place with its brick staircase, the riverside fish and chips, and the benches by the shore – but admittedly, the Wharf isn’t the nicest place in the world. It’s early in the morning, but I know the French guy who runs the café by the street, so I stop by for a quick treat. I make my rounds, chirping bonjours and good days. I look for a signpost that has a nice view. With a blueberry in my beak, I perch atop the welcome sign of Studio Retail, and I see Mr. Mendelssohn baking jacket potatoes, the sign outside flipped to “open.” I make out the shape of the fishermen who come on Mondays to catch fish on the Thames. I feel a sudden twinge of melancholy, but it passes quickly. The Wharf sure is home.
Feeling more awake, I glide down to the beach, past the picket fences by the pizza place, past the observation point. Cruising through the mild traffic of the passersby, I land on the shore and begin scouring the beach for any small insects I can catch. After a few minutes, I give up and start sunbathing. It’s good for the feathers. As I tan, I catch a glimpse of something sparkling in the water. Curious, I approach it. It turns out to be an oyster shell. The inside reflects the sun. I look up and notice something. It’s a wooden log, but it seems so familiar. As I take a closer look, I realize what it is. I see the name Jasper carved into it, and an immense feeling, something indescribable wells up inside of me.
You see an old man sitting on a log, watching the waves rise, then fall. Rise, then fall. There’s a bird perched on his shoulder. They sit there for hours. The old man says a few indistinguishable words, and they walk away.
The next day, you see the same old man, but in a hospital bed. There’s an entourage of nurses, a doctor with a hypodermic needle. He looks out the window, seeming to be waiting for something. As the needle sinks into his skin, a flash of blue and black flits by. The old man closes his heavy eyes, a smile on his face.
I stay there by the shore. I watch the waves rise, then fall. Rise, then fall. I remember everything I lost. We fished by the shore on Mondays. We bought ice cream. I always hated the way it settled in my stomach. We ate blueberries, and watched people walk by. It was the nicest place in the world, The Wharf. I fly, fly past the studio, past the bookstore, past the French café, and I find what I’m looking for. Michael Williams, 8/15/1945-3/25/2024. I leave the shell by the gravestone. I realize, Come to think of it, today’s that day.
Written by Jonathan Li from Los Gatos, CA
