Kari Hartbauer ENG050 Section 5, Evan McGarvey

Retreat Sandy stoodhis back to the world, his face to the moon. He seemed the only inhabitant on the earth; nobody ventured the cold desert that was the beach at 3:00 in the morning. There was wind, stirring his coarse and grizzled hair so that it settled in his eyes, though it did not matter, for his view at the moment could not be obstructed. There was cold, though he did not feel it, and there was silence, though he did not hear it. Instead, there was only him and his companionsthe feel of the cool sand that piled into his holey shoes and nestled into his socks of the same state, the roar of the crashing waves, and the gravitational sight of the opalescent moon. As Sandy fingered a poker chip in the right pocket of his tattered trench coat, he stared absentmindedly into the body of the ocean. As far out as he could see, the body seemed still, much like his own, with the exception of his fingers, which forever nimbly flipped a poker chip in the right pocket of his tattered trench coat. He used to have a house. He used to have a wife. Slightly closer to shore, swells formed and lolled lazily. He developed a gambling problem.

The swells surgedhe knew his wife was unhappy, so he kept his games under the cover of his well-developed poker face and formed togetherbut his debts and addiction grewinto a larger, tumbling forceand he lost everything. The wave, the body, the seemingly unstoppable force crashed into the compacted sand. His wife kicked him out. He swore up and down he would make things right, and so he took to the tables to win back his life. He was losing the last of his money and could not find the strength to stop. The foamy lips of the wave trickled their way to Sandys feet and tauntingly licked his toes. With only one chip left on the table, he looked to his wallet for more cash and found nothingnothing that is, except for a delicate portrait of his wife. His wife whom he had lost, his wife whose tears he could taste in the salty ocean air. In that moment, he found his will. He snatched his last chip from the table and ran from the casino. So there he was, standing on the shore with nothing but a poker chip in the right pocket of his tattered trench coat and a delicate picture in the left. He took the chip out and held it to the moon. It was the only money he had left, and he pondered tossing the thing into the waves. But no, he thought. It is much more than that. For three years now, he carried the poker chip everywhere, right next to the strength that was his wife. For three years now, he lived an existence of nonexistence, of nonidentity the locals called him Sandy, though his name was Michael Howard. For three years now, he

stared up at the moon at night to feel his gravitational connection to the earth, to prove that he was, in fact, alive. For three years now, he heard the crash of the waves. He heard the crash of the waves, but never the retreat. For three years he pondered what that meant, and tonight on the anniversary of the night he left his house determined to win back his lifehe finally concluded that the crash is always what comes the strongest; the breaking point is what everybody notices, but only the few and the fortunate notice the final retreat of the water as it slowly ebbs back to the bigger flow, once again at peace. And so, after three years, with nothing but a poker chip in the right pocket of his tattered trench coat, a delicate picture in the left, and the mindset of the waves, Mike Howard turned around and trudged back home.