A March Afternoon on Ocracoke Island

There are no roads connecting Ocracoke Island to the rest of the continent. Arrival only by ferry. By air, I suppose, if you were a bird. Waves crested smoothly in the afternoon sun. Light caught their peaks before they bubbled into the surf that stretched over the shore. In their wake, sand pipers dug for clams. Outer Banks sand is light and soft. Outer Banks sand ruined other beaches for me. I don’t know when my grandmother decided she wanted her ashes spread there. Maybe between her realizing she was sick and realizing she was dying. Maybe she’d decided the first time she saw Ocracoke all those years ago, where time moved a little bit slower. Even now it’s hard to imagine a beach without her sandals, her wicker bag full of books and snacks and drinks that always stayed cold. The March sun was high in the sky and gentle by the time it reached the ground. Wind blew from the water and lifted the thin curls on the back of my neck, like Bebe did when she brushed my hair. Her ashes came in a smooth, dark box. I don’t remember how it opened because my grandfather was the one carrying it. I do remember the plastic bag inside of it, holding my Bebe. Of course she’s in a plastic bag. No one wants grandma spilling out in the parking lot. Dumping remains is illegal in a lot of places. We kind of ignored that. An older couple slowed their walk near our nine person semi-circle. It made me nervous, and then I felt bad about being nervous. This was a funeral, after all. I might have imagined the understanding in the woman’s eyes when she smiled at me, pulling her husband along with one hand and gripping her sun hat with the other. My grandfather had to cut the bag open with his pocket knife. At my mother’s request, I played Angel Baby on my phone speaker while he shook Bebe into the sand. The color was a close match, but I could see where she scattered on the shore. Not to mention the bone shards. No one tells you about the bone shards. I stared at the largest one, two inches long, coated in dust. Maybe from a femur. It stuck out of the sand like part of a seashell, or a tiny piece of driftwood. There was a larger piece to my right. Driftwood — not bone, to be clear. Much larger. Two children climbed its branches while their parents watched. Further down, a kite cut a rainbow diamond against the sky. “Like an angel, too good to be true." My lips and the air tasted like salt. My mom and I didn’t look at each other, but our arms were entwined. She pat my brother on the shoulder while my dad cleared his throat. My cousins were wailing, to young to understand but old enough to know that this was sad, and they didn’t like it. I breathed the swell of the ocean. One of my earliest memories is a beach. Golden, until I’m swallowed by a wave that my four year old legs couldn’t weather. The seafoam washed over me and water went up my nose. I cried and cried, and my mom and my Bebe sat with me on the tailgate of the SUV while I held a juice box from the magical wicker bag. If Bebe was staying a while, maybe she could be the waves. Keeping them calm for the children to play in. She could be the kite overhead with the best view of the ocean. Or the sturdy driftwood, or the soft, soft sand. I dug my toes in and wiped the tears from my face. The breeze dried the tracks they left behind and blew a little bit of Bebe away. Before we left, I walked to the water’s edge. It lapped over the tops of my feet before a larger wave reached the middle of my shins. My legs were stronger now. My brother came to splash me with water. That, at least, hadn’t changed. There are no roads connecting Ocracoke Island to the rest of the continent. Maybe Bebe could visit us, if she was a bird. But I hope she stayed a while. I hope she left footprints beside ours while we walked the beach, carrying a boxed white wine cooler with a little umbrella sticking out. I hope every day is a March afternoon on Ocracoke Island.