They have walked up and over the cliff tops to the power pole and cliff
face with the glorious view up and along the tree’s wide shelter to eat
apricots and watch the waves lash the black sand. They walk along the sand
to the flags, and then the low tide, at the point of turn, thrashes their backs.
They walk along the shallow stream dappled in late afternoon light, the children’s
feet greedy for spots of sinking sand, then over the bridge to the cars.
She serves a fruit platter with lemon syrup cake and ice-cream, and the telephone
rings. This is the call, he says. And so it is. Her aunt has gone. She walks back
to the table holding the fruit platter and busts into tears. Everyone stares.