jan oskar hansen

The coast of Memories

Late summer, it lasted well into September, when I walked along
the pebbled beach in the bay, and saw my uncle and aunt sat on
an air-mattress soaking up the last of the summer light as the sea
gently slapped around their feet. I walked passed them slowly in
the hope they would turn around, see me and give me coins for
ice cream; they didn’t and I was too shy to say halloo.

My aunt looked more or less like my mother, uncle though had
big shoulders and muscular arms, something to tell the boys in
the street, but since he drove the town’s beer truck, I had to invent
a story; he had been a boxer in Chicago, but had to come home
‘cause his mother was sick, if not he would have been the heavy
weight champion of the world now.

Mother says that I mustn’t be alone so much, but I’m here to look
at the shiny pebbles just under the surface of the sea, I used to take them home but they lost their lustre when dry. I also like to listen
to the sea, it sighs mostly as being fed up of being so old and alone; often it whispers stories I repeat when going home. I can’t bring
the boys here they will only be noisy and throw pebbles about.