Spending Time

Let's spend some time together, shall we? 

What if I told you that, in a box in front of you, you have all the money you're EVER going to have?

You can look in the box.  You can hold the box, feeling its weight.  And from this, you can guess how much you have. But, you can't count it.  You can never know for SURE how much you have. 

What's more, you can't take anything out of the box, unless you are spending it.  And you can't put anything back in, even if you just took it out.

Finally, you can only spend your own money, from your own box. You can't borrow anyone else's, and nobody else can give you more.

What you have NOW is the most you're ever going to have.

You'd eventually be pretty aware of everything you spent, wouldn't you?  

Oh sure, while you can tell the box is full, you might spend on things you don't need. Maybe even spend on things you don't even want. (My box is super full, right?)

But, as you notice the box getting lighter, and that you have to reach deeper to pull out what you spend, you might take a little more care that what you spend on is important.  

And, as that box empties, you begin to hear the last of what you have sliding around the bottom.  It's getting hard for you to even reach what you need from the bottom. And when you can reach it, it's increasingly hard to even get your fingers to pick it up.

You'd be sure to spend THIS money wisely. Maybe on things that you dreamed about; maybe, on things you know have to last you forever.

And then, what if I told you that there is a thief that sometimes picks a box and steals some of the money? And, sometimes, the thief steals it all.

How would you spend your money then?

This, I think, is how we need to look at the moments we have in our lives.

Before each of us is all the time we're ever going to have.  We've got a good idea how much we SHOULD have, but we're never sure. It might be more and it might be less. And, sometimes, all we have is taken, for no reason at all.

So, when I say to you, "I'm glad I got to spend this time with you," I don't say it lightly.  It's precious time that we've truly SPENT, and can never recover.

Today I found out a friend passed suddenly. She and I were not close, but we were friends.  Just a week ago, I had the pleasure of spending the weekend with her at a yearly gathering.  

She and her sister, I, and a very few other friends took six hours on a train, both ways, to attend.  On the ride down, I got to sit with her, and painted her nails for the event. It was about a half hour of very close contact, and conversation. It may very well have been the longest we'd ever spent talking one on one.  It left us both with a smile, her with a lovely manicure and me with a memory of her that will last a lifetime.

I'm sorry to say I didn't give it much thought then. But with the stark reality revealed in hindsight, I am deeply grateful that she chose to spend that time with me.

About NOLA

COVID update... you should check the website for all of these. many are temporarily closed, and some now are gone forever (I'm looking at you, Johnny White's )  I’m slowly making updates, but I wouldn’t trust anything at this point.

This was written for a friend who was staying at the Homewood on Rampart St. above the Quarter during the Christmas season.  Distances might not apply to you., but the advice does.

To do... 

Food: 

1. GWFins.  https://gwfins.com/ Name is stupid, but has the best seafood in the FQ, hands down.  Menu changes daily.  But, get the lobster dumplings, no matter what. 

2. Irene's.  No reservations taken.  Bistro style Creole.  Used to be, I would have said that you'll wait in line, but it's worth the wait… They have changed to a much larger location, and I believe the line is kind of a thing of the past. 

3. Lunch(!) at Napoleon house. http://www.napoleonhouse.com/  The two of you can share a whole or half Muffaletta (don't let enayone tell you that Central Grocery's is better just because it was the first.  Trust me, the Nap House is the best in the FQ), a cheese board, and absolutely do not miss getting a couple of Pimm's Cups. 

4. Also lunch at K-Paul's http://www.kpauls.com/.  A remarkably casual experience, but this is going to be a lot of heavy Cajun and Creole.  Chef Paul Prudhomme was virtually single-handedly responsible for the rest of America finding out what Cajun was.   

5. Predictably, Cafe du Monde for Coffee and Beignets.  (Cafe au Lait, specifically).  Counterintuitively, the best times are when they have a wait.  If you go when you can just sit, the beignets tend to be a little on the not-fresh side.  If they're busy, they will always have just come out of the fryer. 

6. You can try Brennan's, which was historically the flagship high-end restaurant in the downtown/FQ area.  They recently reopened, and I have not been since.  There are a number of other Brennan family restaurants, if you want to go that route, at a lesser hoity-toity sort of level:  Mr. B's, Bourbon House, Dickie Brennan's, Palace Cafe, Redfish Grill.  All are strong, with my least favorite being Bourbon House.  Redfish is Brennan food, with a wear-shorts kind of atmosphere. 

7. Inexpensive intimate Italian can be had at Mona Lisa. https://www.yelp.com/biz/mona-lisa-new-orleans It's super casual, but the pasta is very good, and they give out crayons to draw on the table-paper.  If you go during peak times, twenty minutes is an average wait. 

8.  Burgers and baked potatoes at Port of Call. https://portofcallnola.com/ I'll be honest, the only thing that makes the burgers special is their size, which is formidable.  But, the Monsoon is a world-renowned drink, and can put you to bed early if not respected.  You'll see lots of the 32-ounce white cups being toted around the Quarter.  There's almost always a wait during regular dinner times.  I have been known to hit this one around four in the afternoon, just to beat the rush. 

9.  Back to the high-end, Bayona is among my favorites. http://www.bayona.com/  If you eat sweetbreads, hers are the best I've ever had. 

10.  Pat O'Briens.  Seems touristy, and it's a little more expensive than other bars.  BUT, if you go right around sunset, into dusk, the flaming fountains are great to watch, and, despite no longer being made by hand, a hurricane served in a glass in that courtyard is still kind of a special moment.  But, make SURE you get a seat in the courtyard. 

11.  Since you're in for the holidays, many restaurants do a Reveillon dinner in celebration.  This was originally the meal you got after midnight mass on Christmas Eve.  But, it has been extended to mean any special celebratory holiday season meal.  Some restaurants are noted here: http://www.frenchquarter.com/reveillon-dinners/ But, many who are not named also do Reveillon.  Doesn't hurt to check.  (Pronounced "REVeeyon," or "REVayon," depending on how blueblood you are) 

Food to Uber to: 

1.  If you can get into Brigtsen's  (pronounced BRIGHT-sons) https://www.brigtsens.com/ I definitely recommend it. Reservations required (actually not, but walkins wait a long time)  It's my favorite restaurant in the city.  Haute Creole, served in one of three dining rooms in a converted sidehall cottage. (Think shotgun house, but with a hall down the length of one side) 

2.  Virtually a must do...  Lunch at Parkway Bakery, in Mid City right off of Bayou St. John http://parkwaypoorboys.com/.  Exceptional Roast Beef Po'Boy.  I order the Surf and Turf, which is Roast Beef with debris gravy and Fried Shrimp.  Do not wait in line to eat in the dining room.  Go into the bar and take a seat in the bar room, and order from the bartender.  You can bypass a forty-five minute wait that way. 

3.  Liuzza's on Bienville http://www.liuzzas.com/.  Traditional Creole Italian joint.  The Frenchuletta is my favorite in this place (a Muffuletta in Po'Boy form.)  You'll get a full dose of what Yat culture is from the staff there (Yat comes from the traditional New Orleans Blue Collar greeting "Where y'at?", meaning "How's it going?" These folks are easily identifiable by the nearly-brooklyn accents over a generally southern attitude) 

4. Elizabeth's in the Bywater for breakfast http://www.elizabethsrestaurantnola.com/.  Standard breakfast joint, but I can't avoid the Maple Bacon.  Great location in an OLD New Orleans neighborhood.  (This one COULD be walked, but Uber is a better choice)

5. Once you're done stuffing your face at any of these, you can't go wrong with Angelo Brocato's, a century-old gelato joint and Italian bakery.  I have one word...  Stracciatella. Trust me. http://www.angelobrocatoicecream.com/ 

Other stuff: 

1. Frenchmen St. in the Faubourg Marigny (said as just "the Marigny," pronounced MAIRinny) http://frenchmenstreetlive.com/.  It's walkable from the quarter.  Best way to go is go toward the river, take a left on Decatur St, and pick up Frenchmen where Decatur crosses Esplanade.  Just walk the street popping in and out of places. This is a street littered with music clubs/bars of all types, and on Saturday night, there is street art, vendors, street food, and all kinds of fun stuff.  If you run across the Gumbo Man selling gumbo out of the back of his pickup, grab a big styrofoam cup of this.  It's shockingly good.   

2. Snug Harbor (http://www.snugjazz.com/calendar) In the center of Frenchmen St.  This place is literally the epicenter of current New Orleans jazz.  This is a small, traditional jazz hall, and some of the biggest names in the world play here, cheaper than you can ever see them elsewhere.

3. Audubon Aquarium. https://audubonnatureinstitute.org/aquarium  A medium-sized aquarium focused on Gulf, Swamp and River life.

4. Insectarium on Canal Street https://audubonnatureinstitute.org/insectarium.  Bugs.  Lots of bugs. 

5. Next door to Pat O's is Preservation Hall.  VERY small room, dedicated to preserving Jazz from the early 1900's.  You can bring drinks in, but there is no bar, and no rest room.  Shows are about an hour.  These guys are not putting on an act.  It's the Real Deal. http://preservationhall.com/hall/ 

6. Take the ferry (http://www.neworleansonline.com/tools/transportation/gettingaround/ferry.html) at the base of Canal St., next to the Aquarium across to the West Bank (ironically, southeast of the FQ), and have a drink at the Old Pointe Bar http://www.oldpointbarnola.com/, or at the Crown and Anchor https://crownandanchor.pub/, then ferry back.  It's $2 per person per direction, but it offers a great view of the city from a vantage point you never get. 

7. Mardi Gras beads...  Take an Uber to Plush Appeal at 2811 Toulouse St http://www.mardigrasspot.com/.  This is one of the four or so major Mardi Gras throw outlets that all of us Krewe riders buy our throws from.  You can get all kinds of stuff that you'd pay through the nose for on Bourbon St. in any quantity you like.  There are a lot of unique items that Boubon St. buyers never see, not the least of which is a huge selection of glass beads.  If they ask you if you ride a Krewe, tell them you're new with Krewe of Tucks (that's mine, https:www.kreweoftucks.com ) and you'll get a discount. 

8. You'll be there during the holidays.  City Park (you can streetcar to it, which I recommend, despite being unpredictable, timing-wise) runs Celebration in the Oaks, which is generally beautiful. http://neworleanscitypark.com/celebration-in-the-oaks.  Used to be Christmas in the Oaks, but with modern political correctness, the name is changed, and we've added a giant menorah.  This is a walk-through holiday display, with a through-the-park mini train.  Try and hit the "Cajun Night Before Christmas" display.  It's lo-tech, but funny.  After you're done with that, you can walk in the park over to Morning Call, which ALSO serves coffee and beignets.  (The coffee is better than, but the beignets not as good as Cafe du Monde, but you do get to apply your own powdered sugar.) 

9. TAKE A STREETCAR RIDE. http://norta.com/Getting-Around/Our-Streetcars I am a big fan of all of the lines, including the Rampart line that runs in front of your hotel.  But, get on the St. Charles line (green cars) that start their run at Canal and Carondelet St.  (Across Canal from the top of Bourbon St.) and head through the CBD, Garden District, Uptown and Carrollton.  I'd take a ride mid-day, and get off the streetcar just after it makes its turn away from St. Charles uptown.  Eat a greasy-spoon lunch at the Camellia Grille (The Doc Brinker and a Chocolate Freeze is my favorite), and then take the Streetcar back to the Quarter.  It's an interesting ride on original equipment, built in 1923 and 1924.  I insist on the St. Charles line, because all of the Red cars in service on other lines are modern and were either built for 1997 in New Orleans (Riverfront line) or for 2003 (Canal/Cemeteries, Rampart, Union Station.) 

10.  Cemeteries. This is a big deal. You can take a cemetery tour, but I prefer just to walk them by myself. My favorite is in the Garden District at Washington and Prytania (Streetcar stop at Washington avenue, then a block toward the river), but it's only open 7am to 3pm.  St. Louis #1 is on the edge of the quarter, quite close to your hotel, open 9am to 3pm.  However, this one has been known to be a little sketch with regards to robberies and such. Less in recent years, but its proximity to a rough naighborhood makes it less favorable for me.  If you go in a group, you'll be safe. 

11.  Walk the moonwalk.  The strip in front of the river from Esplanade Ave up to Canal St is a great walk. Very breezy and lots of river traffic.   

Bars: 

1. Talked about Pat O's.  Do it. 

2.  My personal favorite night hangout used to be Johnny White's Hole in the Wall. http://www.johnnywhitesfrenchquarter.com/hole%20in%20the%20wall.html at 718 Bourbon, across from Bourbon Heat.  It has closed for a number of reasons, along with its siblings, the Original bar and the Corner Bar.  Many of the locals that haunted that place have moved over to…

3. The Boondock Saint. This is on St. Peter directly across from Pat O’Briens.  This bar is very much a local’s joint in the French Quarter, which is odd given its proximity to Bourbon St.  It’s open late night (not quite 24 hours, but deep into the dark hours), and one of the four TVs always runs Boondock Saints on a loop.  It’s a good sit-and-meet-new-people kind of place.  Don’t miss the latest bit of fun, the three mystery shots!

4. Old Absinthe House Bar.  http://www.ruebourbon.com/old-absinthe-house/ Bourbon and Bienville.  Busy, but interesting bar.  Open fireplace in the back, serves absinthe.  Has Tom Dempsey's shoe hanging from the cieling (63-yard field goal at sea level, Nov 1970). 

5. Voodoo Lounge.  https://www.yelp.com/biz/voodoo-lounge-new-orleans 24x7, three blocks down Rampart from the hotel.  Decent selection.  Decent bartenders.  I've watched the sun come up from this bar lots of times. 

6. Black Penny.  https://www.facebook.com/BlackPennyNola/ Closer to the hotel on Rampart.  Newer bar with a focus on craft beers.  Darkish place, with a strange split bar, but the staff is very knowledgeable and friendly.. 

7. Bar Tonique. http://bartonique.com/ I don't go here, but it's a well respected bar of mixology.  About 5 blocks from hotel on Rampart. 

8.  Need LATE night food and a drink?  Buffa's on Esplanade in the 1000 block http://www.buffasbar.com/.  I've also chased the sun here on more than one occasion. (NOTE:  For the time being, 1am is closing time.  COVID staffing is pinching everyone.)

Hope this helps. 

I did not die on an airplane Monday.

But, in the dark of the mostly sleeping passenger cabin, there were three chimes, not two. That's what it took to shake me from my fog and know things were going to get serious.

The flight attendant reached for the cabin phone, spoke to the cockpit, and then immediately went to securing the galley. "Flight attendants prepare for landing," from Left Seat was not far behind.

I checked my watch, and it was about 8 AM, more than an hour before our scheduled arrival in DC. I turned to Robin and said "We're diverting. Now. Something's wrong."

The first class attendant got done scurrying about the galley, and came and stood in front of us. We were diverting and we would soon be landing at, "an airport."

She explained that she knew we were all experienced travelers and almost never did this, but this time we were to review the information cards in our seatbacks, paying particular attention to the crash positions and emergency evacuation. If anyone had any questions about how to do anything in those sections, she needed to know RIGHT NOW. Every single one of us pulled and read the card like we'd never seen one before.

Volunteers were taken to assist in ensuring that the doors were opened and available for egress should we have to evacuate. This was not a "verbal yes" sort of thing, but a "come with me now and I'm going to show you for real how to do this."

I've flown quite a lot in recent years. Not superhuman numbers, by any means, but I figure I've been on a plane 350 or more times in the last eight years. I've been actually diverted only twice. And, nobody has EVER seen it necessary to offer midflight explanations of crash positions, or actually begun to prepare to evacuate. It occurred to me this might be quite serious.

I began to use the still-operational inflight WiFi to send some quick messages to a short list of people that had to know:

"We are diverting. There's something wrong with our plane. I love you."

In retrospect, I can see that this would be a classic "last thing we ever heard from..." kind of message, and is, of course, quite macabre. But, it was short, direct, and accomplished the two things I found most important, faced with a nontrivial possibility that we would find ourselves suddenly at the end of the path: It told people that should know what happened to me, and it told those people that, in what might be final moments, I was thinking about them, and did, in fact, love them.

As I put the phone down, I heard the last of the instructions, "... you must leave everything that you have under the seat and in the overheads behind. We all have laptops that we are concerned about, but they WILL be left behind while we evacuate!"

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain. We have a fault, and we have run the checklists for it, and this is telling us to declare an emergency... we are above Greenville-Spartanburg and we are currently spiraling down toward the airport there. We'll be on the ground in ten minutes"

In my head, I couldn't help adding, "...one way or another."

"Your flight attendants should be instructing you on evacuation procedure, but we are fairly confident we won't need to evacuate." Fairly confident. Not sure. But fairly. Carefully chosen verbiage from the gentleman in the left seat. My mind reels back to the instructional, "in the unlikely event of a water landing..." What they don't tell you is that if you're going to hit the water, the unlikely part is that it will be a "landing."

Many of us up front on that flight were actually regular travel acquaintances (the New Orleans DC commuter loop is not a heavily used one, and you definitely get to know some folks). I knew six people out of the twelve seats in first. We all spent a lot of time casting nervous glances at each other, and there was a lot of hand holding, and quiet reassurances. There were prayers. A lot of prayers.

It's not a nice feeling being in an aircraft in distress, and descending into clouds toward the ground. We had begun, as the folks on the flight deck had said, a "spiral" toward the airport. (I get that this is to be descriptive of the maneuver, and is technically accurate to the motion, but holy shit, the wording did not inspire confidence!) This had the aircraft begin to bank slowly into a banked right turn, with that banking angle slowly increasing. As we descended in that way into the fog of the clouds, we were still increasing that angle, and I reached my very first moment of real visceral fear in my entire flying history.

Without visual cues nor instrumentation, and on a banked turn, the forces you feel do not correspond to what your actual orientation in space is. And this lead me to briefly think, "what if we're continuing that bank until we begin to roll over?" I gripped Robin's hand a lot harder than I intended. Weirdly, I giggled through that whole sense of disorientation.

As we broke through to the clear air below the clouds, I could see we were in no more radical an attitude than we were above, and this gave me a bit of relief.

One of the passengers I was next to had been a commercial pilot for an unnamed Atlanta-based airline for thirty years. I leaned over and asked what he thought of the situation. We decided that, since the plane didn't appear to be behaving strangely that we didn't think there was a catastrophic physical failure. But, he kept saying "it's very unusual." No physical damage? Excellent. "Very unusual?" Not so good. There was some speculation that this could be a security issue that was being announced to the cabin as an equipment issue.

By this time, we had started on a straight descending path toward the runway. As is common, our speed was decreased and increased along the way. This was good. We appeared to have control over and power from the engines. One more weasel in my head disappeared.

As we touched down, with what can only be described very positive contact, we whizzed past every fire truck, ambulance, and support vehicle that GSP had at their disposal. It occured to me, we had never heard the terrifying "Brace!" command. Unsurprisingly, the cabin erupted in applause.

We taxied to the jetway, and the "bong" indicating we could unbelt went off. This completely surprised our attendant, who was expecting a tarmac evacuation. Turns out, with the jetway pulled back, and strapped into the jump seat, she couldn't actually see we were parked at a gate.

And thus began the most strangely normal deplaning of my entire flight history. After a couple of quick trips to the bathroom, all of us that are "regulars," What I'm calling the Krewe of Airport Bars, descended immediately upon the nearest concourse watering hole, where I bought mimosas while we all rebooked flights.

After several announcements from the captain to the boarding area, and a couple of personal sidebars with him, what we found out was this. ExPilotGuy and I were completely wrong. There was no security issue. What happened was ("what ha'happen wuz...") that a circuit breaker on a line that provides power to the avionics unit had literally snapped off midflight. (Avionics. Right. We need that, no?) This left only one component backing it up. That redundant component is not like a spare tire on the ol' station wagon. You don't get to run around on it until it's convenient. It's required that you put in to the nearest capable airport and address the repair before the plane can be allowed to fly any further.

So no evacuation, completely rebooked. No harm, no foul. Up tip the mimosas.

So,did I die on that flight? No, I sure didn't. Did I think I was going to? Well, let's say that I don't know if I actually thought I WAS going to die, but I definitely didn't think I wasn't.

So, interesting Monday. Things are going to be a little weird for a while.

FaLL

Sometimes, I go to the secondhand store here in Northern Virginia. It's a big place, rivaling your average department store in size, and housing an amazing amount of unusual and outdated things to look through. Every once in a while, there's some strange computer part or kitchen gadget that I could use. And, the books are reliably quite numerous. Even ignoring that, I'll sometimes spend hours in there, imagining the stories behind some of the things that have found their way here, waiting on a second home.

Sunday was a book day. I'd wandered through the computer parts and the T-shirts and the ancient sporting goods, and had wound up parked at the fiction books somewhere in between the cookbooks, technical manuals, and bodice-rippers that seem to make up the bulk of the thrift-store book market. I had stumbled upon a copy of James Michener's Space, which I remembered having been in my late mom's collection years ago and I wound up caught in a moment of reverie.

After staring a bit dumbly at it for a few seconds, I thumbed through the acknowledgment and read a few paragraphs of the book. I decided that, despite plucking a nostalgic chord in me, I wasn't really interested in the book itself. As I refiled Space (I should really say "reshelved," here... There isn't exactly a Dewey decimal system in the secondhand stacks.), my foot almost knocked over a small canvas somebody had seen fit to just leave leaning against the bottom of the bookshelves.

I picked it up and found it was a child's painting. About the size of a placemat, perhaps twelve inches wide and eighteen inches high.  It was bright colors, light blue and light green with reddish spots in the canopy of a rudimentary tree, and orange and gold leaves floating in midair. Some of the leaves were penciled in, unpainted. A big pink paint rectangle had been suspended from the top, left of center on the canvas, with the theme of the painting splotched in black within: "FaLL"   I kind of smiled at the primitive effort, and put the painting down (right back on the floor in front of the books, I remembered later) and went to look at the rest of the titles on offer. I got halfway down the row, and was struck by sudden sadness.

I can only imagine "FaLL" is a child's art class assignment, left partly unfinished because time ran out for the artist, as time in class is wont to do. Unfinished or not, it was brought home and presented to her proud mother or father.  Maybe it was displayed in the living room or bedroom.  It may have even been taken to an office somewhere and had a proud home on work desk for years, not unlike the clay turtle I made in elementary school that spent so many years on the windowsill in my own father's office.

So, how did it wind up here, in a secondhand store? What happened in this family that a product of a child's artistic development wound up in a heap of things that were just discarded like so many outgrown clothes? What happened to the child? Just the idea of its discard made me deeply sad. I actually felt abandoned for the child and for the painting itself.

Discarded once, and then tossed carelessly at the foot of the books in some secondhand store filled with absolute strangers, I could see the remainder of its future in that moment. It would be kicked again and would fall into the path of the hundreds of children that run around this store, and would eventually be broken or ripped underfoot of a child running for the toy aisles. The closing shift would find it, damaged and unsellable, and would relegate it to the trash heap, where it would eventually find its way, under countless other broken, unwanted things, to the landfill. Its last exposure to the light of day would be choked out by the building layers of refuse.
Some day, a year from now (or many), a child, now grown, might have a brief glimmer of memory of handing that painting over to her parents.  The memory might give brief pause, but would soon yield to the demands of life, and the last remnant of the child’s effort would be lost forever.

I went back and picked up the canvas. It had been tagged on the reverse as costing just over two dollars. Somebody's child's handiwork, presented in pride and love... two dollars. 

It’s hanging over my desk in my Virginia apartment now. I don’t know if it was the best two dollars I ever spent, but giving that child’s effort a little more life definitely helps me sleep a little better.

Walking along the Wall tonight, making my way backward in time, I was contemplating the 58,307 names that make up its one hundred and forty memorial panels. The few people still out on this moonful and chilly night passed mostly silent, or talking in reverent whispers. Every so often, though, someone passed speaking so I could hear, and more often than not these conversations were stories of the so awfully many dead named here.

In the last group that passed me, clearly having visited the inscribed name of a loved one, one of them was explaining to the others that the separator between the names had been changed to a cross because their soldier's remains had been located.

I envisioned the thousands of similar friends and family, each coming in kind to the wall to visit a name that marks the terrible sacrifice of their husband, or their friend, or their brother. It occurred to me then, for the very first time, that in many cases, the name on the wall is the only thing that remains. And the question finally materialized in my heart... what happens when there's nobody left to come for the name? What if there never was anyone?

I don't know Eddie Lee Jackson, Jr., but his name, somewhere in the middle of panel 39 on the west wall, stood out to me. I thought about the finely-hewn cuts and grooves that lay in the granite, collecting the pollen of the spring, the rains of the summer, the dust of the fall, and the snow of winter, year after year, maybe without ever knowing the touch of a loved one who remembers him.

I don't know if anyone ever comes for Eddie, or ever has, but I reached out and touched his name anyway, and tried to remember a man I did not know.

I hope that's enough.

Sunset came at 7:59, right on schedule.

The last remnants of the day filtered away, and the sky turned amber, then crimson. And we started lighting the lanterns. Just a few at first. We'd save the last for later. After.

The lanterns puffed up, their ricepaper envelopes ballooning, and straining toward the sky. Releasing the first, its ambition to flight seemingly premature, it sunk toward the ground, skipped, then floated, at first an inch, then a foot, and then into the air, gently offshore and away.

After quite a while the light that flickered under our first lantern-ballon gave its last gasp. The remaining heat in the balloon continued to bear it aloft, and dwindling in size, it eventually faded from view.

It seemed obvious that this was the right time, and I walked forward, taking my first steps into the sea, until the waves lapped at my knees.

As I stood there in the surf, my pants swished around my calves as the water rushed in, and rushed out again. In and out. In. And out.

My dad had given it to me just a little while before, and I had carried it to the water with me. Tiny, only two inches tall, it was, nonetheless, exceptionally weighty. Unscrewing the finely machined top, I saw what was inside, for the first time in almost nineteen years.

It's not dust. I always thought it would be just dust. It's really dust and some other, larger things. Heavier things.

After what could have been hours (or just a minute or two... who knows how time behaves in situations like these), I saw a small wave that I knew would crest at my leg. As the water begain to curl onto itself, I swung the vessel downward, smoothly and as gracefully as I could, then back again to empty its precious contents onto the foam that the collapsing wave had created.

The water and foam receded, and I could see the remainder of my errand, shining white in hundreds of pieces on the seafloor, and I wondered briefly if that's where she would lie, forever. And I wondered if I had failed in keeping this, the last of the promises made to her.

But the sea is, in the end, a mother in her own right, and merciful in her own way. As if she knew why I was here, a series of swells crested at my legs, and their receding flow, little by little, carried my mother away.