1 story about a sunrise

1. It was like remembering, that coming-up of pink on the horizon. It was like a memory, rising and yawning, that coming-up of pink, stretching into an orange, a purple haze, glowing, like memories do. We could have been sitting dormant, sleeping perhaps, and then pleasantly, a flash. It was the emergence of light, coming-out of the dimness. It was a straightening of the spine. There was no need to talk, wordless thoughts and feelings floated up and in and around us, recalling what we had once known. The pink appeared and our memories echoed out into the morning. If there was beauty in the world, we would see it.

Our mother had died two weeks prior. After the funeral, we drove to the coast to show her the sunrise. She’d never been to the beach before. She’d never seen why people had once assumed you could sail and sail and drop right off the edge of the earth. With my feet sinking into the sand, it occurred to me that before we knew it our own mother had dropped off the edge of the earth.

Jonathon picked me up in morning, in his Mercedes—some late model, vintage is the word. I scoffed. Except for the funeral, we hadn’t seen each other in years. We had barely spoken. Somehow we had celebrated all those important dates—weddings, birthdays, Christmas—on different days. Our mother had spent her time to-ing and fro-ing between us, but we hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years. How time flies! How we become, when it could not possibly have been predicted, such adults—so independent! I scoffed because it wasn’t like him, the Mercedes.

I sat with my mother between my legs. It was uncomfortable, but I knew it would only defy the journey to stick her in the back, like a child, and exclude her from the grown-up conversation in front. After all, we wanted to talk to her. We wanted to know what it was like, now that it was over. When we arrived we put her up on the dashboard so she could see the sun. We told her about ourselves and eventually we must have fallen asleep, Jonathon with his head against the door, and me with my forehead on my arm on the dashboard, next to the urn.

We awoke what could have only been an hour or so later. The sun had pushed past the horizon and there were a few surfers down on the beach, heading into the water. We ate biscuits from a bag and I apologised about my messy habits. Jonathon laughed. He said he’d wanted children, but Sarah hadn’t. He said it was a regret. The crumbs are fine, he said. We were quiet after that, the car was getting warm. We wound down the windows and threw the remaining biscuits to the birds on the road. It’s fabulous here, isn’t it, Jonathon said. Why don’t we take her out? Why don’t we let her taste the air?

We pushed ourselves out of the car and didn’t bother to lock up. Jonathon guided me down to the sand with his arm loosely around my waist. I held the urn. We walked for a long while, it seems, and when we were far enough away from the surfers and the couples who had ventured out for a morning jaunt, we entered the water. We waited for the waves, and let her roll out with the tide.