Today’s story has few words, but a lot to say. I hope you enjoy this flash-forward. I penned it last year about this time. Happy Sunday!
They tore down Trump’s wall to build it,” my grandfather scratched his nose, white from a thick layer of zinc. He pointed at the graffiti defacing the side of the vessel, now permanently moored in our backyard.
“Couldn’t someone recently tatt’ed the boat?” I saw familiar lettering, words I’d seen on the arms of the boys at my school. Bright colors, oversized words like “Boss” and “Proud Boys.” We walked in closer through a line of wooden sticks emerging from the sand like a broken set of ribs.
“Why would people ‘ave built a boat? Not like it ever rains.” I touched the beams reverently. It was one of the few times in my life I’d felt real wood.
Grandpa chuckled. “Usta rain everywhere.” He stretched his hands over his heads as he continued. “There were huge mountains of ice, and when they melted, people panicked. Built big boats in case the waters kept rising.”
My grandfather’s fingers were bowed and weathered like the ship’s. Instinctively, he knelt down on one knee. I grabbed his arm to steady him as sands stirred.
His voice crumbling, he whispered, “Tyrant,” and with that, I also knelt. A small gesture, but one we both knew meant dissent.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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