The Closing of the Ocean

During the first week of November, all the police officers leave their clean pressed uniforms on the front steps of the houses or the landings of their apartments. Anyone is free to pick them up, put them on, and see what it is, this work of being an officer of the law. My brother is a cop and lately his eyes get kind of wobbly when he talks about work, which isn’t often. He’s in charge of keeping people off the beach at night. Too many accidents of late, so they’ve decided to close down the ocean until summer. And my brother was the one chosen to make sure it stayed shut down, nice and tight. No one breathing in the briny air. No one gazing as the waves lapped the sand off the rocks jutting out like bones in the night. No old men showing off the fur on their chests as, steaming, they pawed their way out of the water into the early morning air. “Gotta close down the ocean,” my brother would say. As if it actually meant something. And maybe it did. And not only to him. Because this year the uniforms remained where they had been placed, untouched all week. But every night the beach was littered: littered with footprints, littered with the strained whispers of lovers groping for a few more moments, littered with kids laughing like they already had tomorrow rolled up tight and tucked safely away in their pockets. At least, until the end of the week.

(Note: This is one of 7 short stories in a very short collection which can be read at Scribd. If you have time and an interest, please give it a read at...www.scribd.com/doc/65921457/7-Stories-With-7-Pictures)