The Pod

I heard the gentle waves and felt the cool breeze before I even opened my eyes.

Her smiling face greeted me. Sunlight streamed through her dark, long hair as it flowed with the salty breeze. She had always been beautiful, I thought.

She rested her chin on her bent knees. “Hi,” she greeted in a perky voice.

“Hi.” I rose on my elbows. “What’s up for today?”

“They’ve hatched.” I knew she knew how I would react by her knowing smile.

I scrambled to my knees, almost in panic. “Where?”

She pointed at the open shore. “You’re just in time.”

I scrambled against the dry sand, careful where to step.

And there they were.

It had been weeks since we patiently waited in the dark as Mai-Mai made her way to the shore. Mesmerized, we watched as she paddled against the sand to build her body pit and another smaller chamber to lay her eggs which she later covered for protection.

Mai-mai was never seen after that night, I was informed.

Yet she must know now her night was not fruitless as dozens of her little sea turtles now scrambled to the sea.

“How many of them will survive out there?” I asked.

“Not many,” she said. “I’m hoping some will.”

I watched as she sadly smiled, as though she knew better.

A few years ago, I couldn’t believe her when she told me about the island. Back then, she could hardly discern whether things were real or not. Her mind constantly pranced between the then and now, and sometimes in-between where reality and dreams were imperceptible. I had doubted her stories of living here.

But that was before she went away.

We watched until the last of the little turtles was taken away by the waves. After a while, I sensed her watching me as I longingly looked on at the setting sun.

“Will you be back again?” she asked.

“Of course.”

Her smile widened. “I’ll show you the dolphins.”

“I’ve seen one in an aquarium before.”

She scoffed incredulously and stood up, brushing the sand off her sun-kissed arms. “I’ll see you then?”

I kissed her cheek. “Yes.”

Her chuckle was replaced by a gentle beep. I opened my eyes again, detaching the transmitter off my temple.

Suddenly, warmth and blue turned cold and grey.

“Did you have a great time, sir?” asked the attendant behind me. “Your grandmother took you far this time?”

“Eighty years,” I replied with a smile.

She pressed a button. The white metallic pod beeped and turned off. “I’m certain her memory pod has more for your next visit.”

“I know,” I replied.

It had been a year since my grandmother died.

Eighty years since she last saw Mai-mai.

Forty years since the world witnessed the last of Mai-mai’s species perish.

Ten years since the last man-made trash was pulled out of the ocean, banning single-use plastics world-wide. They claimed it a success.

Yet Grandma had said we were quite too late.