The Man on the Beach

THE MAN ON THE BEACH

  He was there again. The old man on the beach in front of my house. He shuffled slowly along, his back bent with exhaustion and old age. Every now and then, he stopped to pick up a sea-shell and dropped it in his tatty satchel.

  I now know why he does that. His wrinkled hand picks them up because he was told that if you ever lose a loved one, you should collect shells and one day, the dead person will come back alive. The elderly, lonely man's son had died in the war. That is why he collects shells with a lot of hope.

  I watch him every day as his grey hair blows around his wrinkled face. His thin, frail body shivers in the cold, icy wind as he looks up at the grey sky above him. His dry, parched lips mumble something and I move behind the bush so that he doesn't see me.

  Ever since his son had died, he bought a dog. Whenever I see the poor old man collecting shells, his faithful dog is perched on the bench or strolling behind his owner. Every day when I see that, tears roll down my cheeks. Today I caught a tear on my tongue and it tasted bitter but I knew it wouldn't be as bitter as the lonely man's life.