They tore down Trump’s wall to build it,” my grandfather scratched his nose, white from a thick layer of zinc. He pointed at the graffiti defacing the side of the vessel, now permanently moored in our backyard.
“Couldn’t someone recently tatt’ed the boat?” I saw familiar lettering on the arms of the boys at school. Bright colors displaying oversized words like “Boss” and “Good Ole Boy.” We both walked in closer through a line of wooden sticks emerging from the sand like a broken set of ribs.
“Why would people have built a boat? Not like it ever rains.” I touched the beams reverently. It was one of the few times in my life I felt real wood.
“Usta rain everywhere,” my grandfather loved to tell stories. “There were huge mountains of ice, and when they melted, people panicked.”
My grandfather’s fingers were bowed and weathered like this ship. Instinctively, he knelt down on one knee. I grabbed his arm, steadying him as sands stirred.
His voice crumbling, he whispered, “Tyrant,” and with that, I also knelt. A small gesture, but one we both knew meant dissent.