Welcome Home

Elaina Short is a sixth-grader at M.S. 51 and was selected as a winner.

The ocean is gray. Loud. Empty looking. Just like me. How my soul feels. How my body feels standing here in the cold, not daring to shiver or show any sign of weakness. My feet are scratched up from running and my hair is all strewn about, in my face, clinging to the wetness of the tears in my eyes. The wind starts up. It is the fiercest wind that I’ve ever seen on a beach before. It is merciless, almost pushing me down the stairs. I wouldn’t care if it did though. I can’t possibly be in a worse state than I am in now. A memory comes to me and I quickly close my eyes and groan to make it go away. All I have to do is make it down these stairs. That’s it. Easy. The velvet pouch that is in my hands, containing Gogo’s ashes suddenly feels rough and cold. My stomach turns.

Gogo died in June 2019. This is the first family reunion without her. The one where no one would be happy and joyous as it once was. Nothing would ever be the same. Of course, I knew this. Nothing is permanent. I just never knew that family wasn’t. We don’t appreciate what we have until it’s gone. We don’t understand the importance of family until we lose it. This is the concept that became crystal clear at the event of Gogo’s death.

Pajaro Dunes is our yearly family reunion spot. Gogo started the tradition. Forty years and now it is all over. Her ashes were the last things left of her and soon they would be all gone. Drifting away in the ocean. Not a problem in the world. Not able to feel the pain of grief and sadness that I was feeling right now. They might end up belonging to some sea creature. I shudder. Hopefully, that will never happen. I count the stairs. 12. 12 stairs meant 12 thoughts of turning back. Of running into my bed and sobbing until Christmas break. Of grief and sadness and vulnerability that I have never felt before. I drag my foot to the edge of the path. I put one foot down and feel a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. God, I hate this feeling. It is like feathers in my chest. I want to collapse and break out in tears and cry until she comes back but it’s clear that that’s not happening. So I take another step. Maybe it’s just a hoax. Is my thought when my foot lands on the next step. Maybe she was feeling insecure about who loved her so she faked her death to see our reaction. Yeah, that’s got to be it. She will come running to me with open arms any second. I look back to the boardwalk and nothing happens. Nobody is running to me. It’s time to stop pretending and get on with the realization that I am all alone. I make a move to the fourth step. They are probably looking for me. I think. I should probably turn back now. I wince and decide to get it over with. I go to the fifth step. I’m hungry, I should go back now. Sixth step. It’s cold. I might get hypothermia or pneumonia. Seventh, and eighth, and ninth and tenth and all the way down to 12 are the same. New thoughts come to me every time my foot lands on a rickety piece of wood. When I get to the last step, I collapse on the sand. My hand is buried deep in the cold gray grains as I clench the pouch.

The wind is blowing sand straight into my eyes and I decide that it’s time to get on with it. I stand up and start walking. Every time my bare, scratched-up foot descends into the sand, I get a little colder inside and a little more aware of what I’m about to do. I get closer and closer to the ocean and I start undoing the clasp on the velvet pouch that contains the last pieces of my sweet beloved Gogo. Sometimes I wonder what piece of her is in my pouch. The head, the leg, the hair. I hope it’s the heart. Because her heart was bigger than anything. With shaking hands, I pull open the pouch and look inside. The color of the ash is like everything else today. Gray, and lonely. I wade into the ocean. I don’t care that I am in the nice dress that Gogo got me, I want to do this right. The waves were so rough I was being forced under again and again until I came to the breaking point. It’s calmer out here, the water is about as cold as Antarctica in winter, but I keep going. I get to the point where I can barely stand. I am on my toes now, gently bobbing over not-yet-formed waves. I hold the pouch over my head so I can put some ashes in my palm. The wind starts up again. Knowing that this is my only chance I lift my hand into the sky and let the wind carry away the ashes to the beach, into the depths of the ocean. I hope she is at peace there. Before the ashes are all gone, I start singing her favorite song. Not singing. Screaming. The tears were coming down hard. I belted out the chorus and cried through the high notes. My voice tingled and people were staring. I didn’t care. The noise of the waves behind me was thunderous, but they didn’t stop me. I sang until my throat was hoarse and the ashes were long gone. I lowered my hand into the water and stood there. Swaying with the current. I must’ve been there for a long time because eventually, the sun started rising. The sun looked like an arm. Not just any arm. Gogo’s arm. My Gogo’s arm. Reaching up into the sky, welcoming light into the world, and accepting everyone for who they really are. For the first time since June, I felt a smile creep its way into my face. I didn’t fight it. I smiled until my face hurt and I relaxed a bit. My family came rushing into the beach and called my name. Before I started walking back to them, my eyes focused on the sunrise. And the next thing I said wasn’t to the sun or to the sky or to the clouds. It was to my Gogo, the one who was in that sun. Waving to me. Waving to the earth. Waving to my family, telling us that she would never forget us, and so I said this. “Welcome home.”