The Nothing of it All

Day 7

All Aboard – Day at Sea

The water lick-lick-licking at the sides of the boat, water slipping around, other ships on the horizon.

We found a lounge with wide comfy couches, reindeer hides draped across the backs with fur so warm and snuggly it made me feel sad that they were dead but also so, so cozy. Longing for winter. The waiter appeared out of thin air, as they do around here, gently placing coffee and cream and wine on the little marble table in front of us. The slow rocking of the boat and the floor to ceiling windows with the wide, wide ocean splayed out from here all the way to forever. I may have dozed a little bit, and the worry and stress of life sucked itself out of my bones and into a little cloud in the top of my head, and then drifted slowly away.

And then there was nothing.

The kind of nothing master meditators hope to one day achieve.The kind of nothing that you hope you always have in your closet. And have it available to wear when life is too much. And you hope that’s what it feels like when you die.

Like a crisp sheet fluffed into the air and then drifting slowly down onto your body.

Like a brand new sweatshirt in Fall.

The colorful food of the fancy restaurants. Every dish artistic and 5-star with swirly sauce and dollops of gravy and dabs of this and that. Reds and oranges and white flaky fish and plump shrimp and sushi and lamb shanks that fall off the bone. Edible flowers and perfect decaf coffee and macrons and roasted pepper gluten-free finger sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Food local to the areas we cruise through – German sausages and Swedish meatballs. The giant steaks too big to finish.

Maybe the leftovers get tossed into the sea. Shark snacks.

The gas fireplaces and pianists that play in the evenings. Violins and cellos in the lobby. Every detail perfect. Little succulents on tables and model sailboats in giant glass cases. Ted Talks and lectures showing us how to tell the difference between real and fake Russian lacquered boxes. The difference between real and fake amber. Real and fake emeralds.

Trying on an emerald necklace – a real one worth $250,000 – just for fun. Just for photo ops so we can tell our husbands we just mortgaged the house. Just to imagine them rolling their eyes and telling us that we’re beautiful just as we are – without makeup and colored hair…and without a quarter of a million dollar necklace.

The two little beds in our room on Deck 6. With bathrobes and a little closet and a desk with binoculars. A deck with chairs and a little table with nothing but the sea out there, where I could stand naked with the curtains open if it suited me, and a little deck door that opens so we can visit Mom and Aunt Janet. And we can all sit out there and giggle and point at the sunset and see who can spot what on the horizon.

Hot towels for our faces and hands every time we get back from an excursion on shore. The little cloths to dry our hands in the rest rooms. The wasted water to wash all those towels. As a girl from the desert I worry, but Mom assures me they won’t run out of water.

We’re on a boat after all, she says.

The waiters who smile and learn our names and what we like to eat. The official looking guys in coats looking important, but still happy to fill up my orange juice if it gets low.

And I sit, and I write, and I periodically listen to rich old people loudly and inappropriately talk on speaker phone to their adult children who need acupuncture like their brother and the lady who takes care of their cat should also take care of his dog, no matter the cost. And they’ll try to find someone else to remodel the kitchen next time. Maybe when they come home from their Fall cruise.

And I spread some clotted cream and jam on my gluten-free scone and snuggle into my cozy couch with my reindeer hide and the guy magically appears with a cup of tea. He slides it to a spot where I can just reach it, and he opens my honey packet for me and lays it on the saucer with a dainty little spoon.

And I enjoy the nothing of it all.