THE BEACHES
(Published in A Long Story Short
as story of the month June 2011
visit their website at:
www.alongstoryshort.net)
The motor coach rolls to a stop, edging itself into the end
of a line of busses parked in the muddy lot. Off goes the engine. The ensuing
quiet belies the group of us scattered in seats in the
coach.
“Ladies and gentlemen, it is now
Noon. We will depart promptly at 3 p.m. Please don’t be late,” says Marie, our
tour director. Most of us just nod; a few mumble. It is, by now, a familiar
routine.
She walks slowly up the bus aisle, handing out brochures. Before anyone asks,
she points out the restrooms, where we can purchase a cup of coffee, and where
the gift shop is located. We all move quickly and quietly down the steps of the
bus and make our way toward the sidewalk.
The day could not be more
fitting. Everyone wears raingear; several of us clutch umbrellas. The fog is so
thick it has spread a thin film of moisture on the grass and the trees.
Following Marie’s lead, we walk toward a bronze statue the brochure says
depicts “the spirit of brave youth ascending from the waves.” Droplets of water
hang suspended from the overhanging trees as we stand in front of the bell
tower. We just look; no one speaks.
Some of us are here just
because. Some have come to visit the fallen and with directories clutched in
damp hands, they search for names. Some are history buffs. Others aren’t sure
why they are making this trip but know they could not be nearby and not come.
You and I hold hands. I feel a lump in the back of my throat. There is beauty
here in the relatively undisturbed French countryside. The geography and the
few nearby villages remain much as they were.
Some shed tears, some are giving
thanks, many pray. We, along with the others, walk among the more than 9,000
who are gone forever. Stars of David and crosses all face toward home. Even in
the Garden of the Missing, flowers are laid in appreciation. At the top of the
windswept bluff, overlooking the long flat beach, we stand in silent awe. The
beach below stretches to the ocean far in the distance. The jagged harbor is
visible because it is low tide. We can see vestiges of ships and armaments,
green with moss or brown with rust, as they lay embedded in the dark sand. The
fog now drips. We walk slowly, stopping to read names and dates, as we make our
way to the small chapel. You seem to be searching for something, a long
forgotten name, perhaps. I see your eyes fill. You squeeze my hand.
Suddenly the damp air holds a
tune. The bells sounding in the tower are mournful as they left a melody to the
sky. Hats are removed, hands cover hearts, heads are bowed, and several people
drop to their knees. There are no dry eyes as the bells sound taps.
Author: Laura T. Jensen prosebylaura@gmail.com