A drugstore in the afternoon. A headache. I wait for my prescription. Man asks is this where I can get a flu shot. Man stands in line for flu shot. Man carries a small tote bag with papers in it. This detail, it makes me feel sad for him and also myself. Because he is fastidious. Because he is the most healthy looking man I've ever seen in line to get a flu shot. Because when he gets to the counter he says I've never had a flu shot before, I've never had a prescription filled here before. Man is an anomaly for these reasons. Because I stare at his skin, the tight cinch of his belt around his trim waist, the tuck of his t-shirt, the coarse rise of his hair. This could have been my father. Not this man, not a flu shot in a drugstore, but the age of a man like this, the second half of his life. My father only had the one half. The beginning of aging, and then the end. When I think of my father I think of the sea. I find him there. I find him in a drugstore. A sea of turquoise boxes with vaporizers and humidifiers stacked against the wall behind which all the medicines are kept. The splashes of orange and black everywhere on the day after Halloween. Everything must go. Everything must go. 50% yellow stickers hanging from shelf after shelf as I exit. As I wade through.