Ian wakes. Listens: rolling sea sounds, surge and spray echoing calmly. Birdsong, buzz of bees, dribbling sounds - an old man's song.
Ian walks over to the window. A very heavy mist. Or perhaps the sun is still too low. Timeless serenity - as if there had been no storm, as if - but,
Choosing now,
Ian turns away. Puts on an old patched pair of blue jean shorts and a tee shirt (an old man - hair and beard intertwined with the rigging of a ship at full sail). Barefoot, he walks down to the kitchen, sits at the table and slowly tastes some water. He looks at the coffee pot. Looks away. Looks at the blinking answering machine. Looks away. 'Later.' Walks into the living room and from the mantle takes down the brass urn that holds his mother's ashes.
Walks down to the beach. Mist opening, closing behind him. Opens again. Folds. 'Will it burn off? Does it ever really burn off?' Still cradling the urn, Ian wades out into the water, kisses the urn and then scatters the ashes slowly, lightly. Devotionally. Watches them float out toward the island.
A wind rolls out of nowhere. The harbor mist blows out from the shore. The sun stands high in the brilliant blue morning. Perfect reflections. Ian looks out toward the island - the ash is nowhere to be seen.
'I guess they've sunk. Or maybe they''ve floated out into the mist. Not memorialized, not forgotten. Just accepted by something out there. Accepted. It's what you wanted. I hope this'll do.'
Ian swims out toward the receding band of mist. Swims back. Walks up to the house, looks again at the red blinking light, changes and goes out to the garden. Quiet resignation. Smell of rotting.
A leaf floats down to its grave.