433.8 Light Years

2

Even though it was rather overcast that day, Ismael decided to visit the beach.

He dropped his pack near the road and began walking onto the sand. Walking on sand, Ismael noted, was quite different than the pavement he was used to, even though he was wearing combat boots. They grew dusty as he made his way to the tide. He closed his eyes as he approached the water, which lapped at the sand, and he took in the soft sounds of the waves that climbed over each other, one after another. It was a sound he hadn't heard—hadn't really listened to—in years, and he wanted to revel in it. He had missed it.

The lake welcomed Ismael as he approached it; the tide lapped softly at his boots, as if beckoning him into the water. He stood unwavered at the boundary that separated the wet and dry sand, eyes downcast, countenance frowning. He breathed in the scent of the water and let his tired muscles relax.

He felt so good to be back home.

As a child, Ismael remembered that his mother had frequented the beach. His mother had fallen in love with it after the passing of his father. He remembered, on good days, the way she would smile upon her porch, looking out towards the beach, even though she couldn't exactly see it from where they lived. He remembered, too, on bad days, she would take the time to venture out to the shore alone, and she would stand there, knee-deep in the tide, just as Ismael did now.

Between parted, chapped lips, he breathed a sigh. His pup, Olive, a beautiful German Shepard, came up behind him and pushed her snout against his calf. Olive had a keen sense for Ismael's emotions, and was spectacular at knowing when he was feeling down. She whimpered softly, and exhaled through her nose sharply, trying to grasp his attention.

Ismael obeyed, as he always did, and briefly rubbed his palm against the top of her head, petting her. Olive continued to whimper and pushed her head further into his hand, but Ismael shushed her, quieting her. He had let himself become comforted by her for much too long; it was time to allow himself to feel something, anything, to remind himself that he was indeed still human--or, at least, still felt human. For a boy of only twenty, he had seen so much pain, and had experienced even more. One could only go through so much turmoil and still keep their emotional sanity, as a human should.

Olive wandered off into the tide. In one swift movement, Ismael reached behind him and took his hair out of his ponytail. The brunette's strands fell from their suspended position, almost freely, willingly, and found their place around his face. They framed it in such a way that it were as if that was where they belonged after all. Ismael blinked a few times and looked up from where his eyes watched the tide; he focused on the horizon and pushed his hair away from his field of view. He looked out at the horizon, which glowed with the sunset in spite of the cloudy weather, and squinted. Briefly, he wondered, when all of this had started, how far off those with boats got before they ran out of food.

Ismael's companion, Olive, began barking, keen as ever. This snapped him out of his reverie; he looked in the direction she was barking and was reminded what he had truly come here for: home. He hadn't a particular goal in mind, but he had promised someone dear to him he would return, one day. Today, of all days, happened to be that day. He wasn't sure if he was ready for it, but Olive ran over to him and pressed her wet snout into his legs again, and he began to walk.

The two walked up the beach and back to the road. Ismael grabbed his pack, slung it over his shoulders, and headed for town.

As Olive scouted ahead, Ismael took in his surroundings. Even though the road was scattered with cars that hadn't been used in years, and it showed signs of wear, Ismael remembered this particular street all too well. It was on this street, Ismael recalled, that he had sat in the passenger seat of his mother's Jeep, long strands of unbound hair in his face as he rested his head on the door, the window rolled all the way down. It was on this street that his mother, elated as ever to visit the beach, would ask him what he was excited to do at there that day. And Ismael would simply shrug, and smile a little to himself.