"But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."

-Robert Frost

Today, I am standing on the sand, staring ahead. The world stretches before me in two shades of blue. The sky is a light, serene blue—empty and quiet—and I love its stillness. The ocean is a darker, turbulent blue—cold, loud, and angry—and I love its chaos just the same. Sometimes, I wish I could be calm and steady like the sky, but instead, I feel like the ocean—always restless, always churning. Tomorrow marks my fifteenth year, yet joy eludes me. I miss my grandfather, and even though it has been well over a year since he passed, I still feel like I haven't said goodbye. The empty seat by our fire haunts me more keenly now than ever before.

Birthdays are not celebrated with grandeur here. Coming of age is marked by responsibility—the responsibility of the Kivari. But I am not ready. My grandfather was my navigator through the challenges of life, and now I am a wanderer lost in a void.

At fifteen years old, the children of the Esling Atoll must undergo a ritual to become Kivari. Tomorrow night, the elders of my village will lead me to the heart of the atoll. This ritual will bind me to the ocean, carving my grandfather's legacy into my side.

The atoll is a dark blue emptiness. As I gaze below, I see the shimmer of luminescent algae, like scattered stars reflected in the water. This algae is gathered and used as ink for the ritual.

This morning, my mother and grandmother prepared our meager birthday meal—dried fish and taro, the usual fare. I watched them, feeling as empty as the wooden stool where my grandfather once sat. He was more than just an elder; he was the keeper of our family's stories, the wise one who understood the secret language of the sea and sky.

I dread the moment when they might acknowledge my birthday. In my mind, attention is a burden, not a celebration. To be seen is to be vulnerable, and I already feel exposed—a young man uncertain of his path, mourning a loss that seems to deepen with each passing day.

Nineteen generations of my family have lived and died on this tiny patch of land, surrounded by endless blue. My grandfather would have known exactly what to do, how to prepare me for the journey ahead. But he is gone, and I am left with nothing but questions and a growing sense of inadequacy.

Tomorrow will come. Another year will mark its passage, and I will remain—unanchored, uncertain, waiting for the wisdom that seems to have departed with my beloved grandfather.