Once a Creature and This Was Its Skeleton

“Cemetery of Whales” by Serge Lecomte

When Abuelo died, he left Abuela with nothing. She wailed every night at low volume for a full year. She didn’t drink. She didn’t eat. She used the Lord’s name in vain.

When her mourning was complete, Abuela had an urge to visit the ocean. She had never been. She reasoned that she should see where we come from and where we’ll all return. There were no takers. Her friends were gone, her family too busy to give up a weekend. So, at 78 years old, she learned to drive.

I was one of the family who turned her down. This is when I was a teenager, and awful, unaware that my own faculties would diminish with time. She begged me to come. Esta es nuestra oportunidad. We had grown apart. I was embarrassed to be Mexican. I was embarrassed to be from a family of liars and being the last to know.

We took my mother’s car without her knowing. Abuela blasted Catholic talk radio the whole drive, using her cane to reach the pedals. When we arrived, I bought a bag of orange and peppermint taffies, hoping it would help with the car sickness. I was mistaken. Abuela took out her teeth and began the long process of breaking down the sticky mass. Que azul, she said, looking out over the water, voice cutting through the glycerin and surf.

The beach was covered in sand dollars. It was the first I had ever seen in the wild; and now there were thousands. Thousands upon thousands. Abuela picked one up and said it was once a creature and this was its skeleton.

She held it close to her ear. She said she was listening to its echo, the story of its life. When she finished, she said thank you and cracked the shell in half. From the rubble in her hand emerged a silver dollar, fresh off the mint.

We collected as many sand dollars as we could, breaking them down with our fingers, thanking them for their bounty. My fingers became stiff and my back ached, but Abuelita had the energy of a younger woman. There was so much and it was hers for the taking.

We put the money in the trunk at nightfall. She paid for a beachside motel. We shared the same bed and watched Walker, Texas Ranger until we fell asleep. The next morning, we stopped at a reservation casino. I drank virgin daiquiris for breakfast and Abuela played the slots. She lost a lot of money, but she would never have to worry about money again. When she had enough, she was ready to face the day. She said Mijo, take me home.

About the author

Vincent Antonio Rendoni is a writer based out of Seattle, Washington. He has a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Chatham University in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His work has appeared in Fiction Southwest, Sky Island Journal, Apricity, Burrow Press, Atticus Review, and more.

About the artist

Serge Lecomte was born in Belgium. He emigrated to Brooklyn in 1960. After graduating high school, he became a medic in the Air Force. He earned a Ph.D. from Vanderbilt University in Russian Literature, worked as a Green Beret language instructor and received a B.A. in Spanish Literature from the University of Alaska where he taught from 1978-1997. He built houses, worked as a pipefitter, orderly, landscaper, driller, bartender. He is also a published poet, novelist, playwright and artist.