Granular By Ali Stewart-Ito (Faculty)
The waves roar, breaking more violently than we’d ever seen. Pink sands soaked by the sea, blood-red, a warning: Go Home. But where were we to go? As our ears are tunneled by relentless gusts, Harry and Audrey’s admonitions grip our conscience. “Do not return until you’ve collected and counted every last grain.” “That’s impossible,” I cry. “We can’t possibly manage,” my toe-headed little brother says, forlorn. No different than any other day, Harry and Audrey ignore our protestations, lather us in sunblock, make us each drink a glass of water, and nudge us through the screen door. Fingers raisined by the sea, we fill and empty our buckets, the grains piling so high the peak is lost in the sky. We lost count ages ago.
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