Something different ...

The Alcudian sky is a little overcast this morning; A film of silver-gilt cloud - too bright to peer into for more than a few seconds - offers a little respite from the sun; this time yesterday I was searching our south facing balcony for what little solace was gifted by a meagre shadow cast by the trunk of the palm tree opposite; realigning my chair every few minutes as, throughout the early hours of the day, the Sun climbed higher and higher into a faultless blue sky.

But it’s still hot.

Fortunately, being close to the beach, we’re occasionally visited by twisting wind devils; miniature tornadoes which begin their dance close to shore and pirouette spritely through the sand before exhausting themselves among the fronds of the palm trees and washing limply over the hotel balconies, their welcomed last breaths tugging at drying beach towels and coddling sweat damped flesh.

I close the laptop, push the chair noisily back over the tiles and stand up. My large, lardy ass is beginning to ache from sitting in the same position for so long. Resting my elbows on the balcony rail, I roll my hips a little - this way and that - until blood begins to flow again.

Our balcony overlooks the sea whose placid, blue-turquoise apron laps lazily at the bleached sands just two hundred yards from our building. Between lies the hotel bathing pools around which adults worship the suns gift, while their kids throw themselves into the waters like spilled cannonball’s or head off for chimerical sea adventures on lie-lows they have imagined into great pirate vessels.

Among those poolside holidaymakers, I spot Alex & Jen (a couple we chatted with in the local ‘Hawaii Bar & Restaurant’ a couple of nights ago) weaving their way through the nests of tables and chairs which spiral outwards from the poolside bar. Dressed too formally to blend in easily with the largely unrobed sun worshipers, they make their way towards the hotels beachside exit. They walk slowly, yet purposefully. Alex normally employs a walking stick to support his steps but, today, he holds his wife’s right hand in his left, and carries the cremated remains of his Son in his right, the indistinct, tubular vessel cradled securely in the crook of his arm exactly as he would have cradled his boy as a new-born baby: resolutely, with care, with love. Addy (Adam) had succumbed to the ravages of a brain tumour two months ago, aged fifty. Believing in neither gods nor monsters, and with no family of his own, Addy had asked his parents if his mortal remains could be interned amidst the folding blue waters of the favourite holiday island he had so happily shared with them throughout his formative years.

So, Neptune would receive a prized beneficence today; a simple homage to Addy - offered humbly, given proudly, and charged with a pathos which few, if any, of those who populated the beach could appreciate.

As Alex, Jen and their boy disappeared down steps leading to the beach path, I turn away from the balcony. My aches eased, I once again realign my chair with the palm tree’s shadow and ease my burly backside down onto the unforgiving surface.

June brings a cup of tea.

I open my laptop and continue tapping out words where I left of: “… and, the world over, we’re all doing something different today.”