tin.

*

he walked along the edge of a dusty dirt road. the light breeze was perfect to offset the heat of the afternoon. he didn't know where he would go, but he knew he had to go somewhere else. nearly halfway down the road he stopped, reached to pick up an old tin can covered in spots of dried mud.


looking at the old tin can, he thought of a time they went to the beach together. they'd spent most of the afternoon laughing with the waves, the water seeping into the sand and around their toes. he found a similar tin can partially shoved into the wet sand. he pulled it out and handed it to her. she stood there, admiring it, turning it over in her hands. she dipped it into the sand again, packing it tightly then flipping it over, carefully, for the beginnings of a sandcastle. they spent the remainder of the afternoon together with that tin can, scraping off another dark layer of warm sand, molding. crafting. constructing. the most elegant sandcastle one could ever imagine.

once it was finished, they sat looking from their masterpiece, to each other, to the sea, to the sky. as they stood to leave and brushed themselves off, she filled the can with the top of a sandcastle tower. she'd saved it ever since--that tin can always sat on her desk. it held her dreams, she said. each grain of sand was a grain of her peace--memory of the sunset from that night. memory of the water's edge. memory of the warm sand. memory of trusting him. faith. memory of a paradise she'd held for an afternoon.


it's gone, he thought to himself, continuing down that dusty path. he imagined the waves chasing onto the beach, destroying the sandcastle--carrying all of it back into the sea. all of it except the bit she'd saved for herself. and even that was gone now. he'd asked if he could hold it, one day.

it'll be alright. i just want to hold it for a minute.
well, ok. she said with hesitation. don't drop it, you'll spill the sand.
he smiled, i'm not going to spill it.
you say that now, she nodded, with a half smile, but how can i know you won't?
you can't, i guess. you'll just--have to trust me.

she paused, then slid the tin can off of her desk in both hands, handing it to him. he looked at it. turned it. pressed his finger into the sand leaving a print. she watched him squeeze the tin in his fist, denting the sides. leaving his mark. she didn't say anything, letting him play with their sandcastle. at that moment, she believed what he'd said just moments before. she believed he wouldn't drop it. that he'd be careful. satisfied with this thought, she turned a switch for her lamp with an empty 'click', and shifted her chair back to her desk to do some reading. in the mean time, he decided he was bored. it was just a tin can and some sand, afterall. he looked at her, to make sure she wasn't watching, and he rotated the tin can just enough to let a layer of sand fall to the floor. this would make a terrible mess.

i'm going outside, he told her.
you'll be alright?
of course. i'll be back.

he stepped onto the balcony, with the tin in hand. he lifted his arm, tilted the can and let the breeze carry a stream of sand across the sky. it was beautiful. he held the can, with an indent from his fist, containing only a few grains of sand left in the bottom. he returned to her desk, set the tin next to her books--now practically empty, and left.


it was gone. and he wanted it that way. no regrets.
he was happier, now. and she wanted it that way--