41 There’s a baby seal stranded on the beach, fuzzy-looking and helpless. Ruth loves everything in nature, and I remember my mom saying that she used to be Buddhist. Or something ambiguously spiritual. Whatever her beliefs, she cares deeply about every living thing, as evidenced by her current worried chattering about the seal’s situation. She’s been trying to call a wildlife hot line, but the service on the shoreline is weak. Her dog is intrigued by its fellow creature, and she makes sure to keep him back. The seal pup shifts its head about but doesn’t try to move anywhere. I can tell he’s alive, though, with how his little nose wiggles in gentle snorts and how his back occasionally scrunches up and down. We wonder where his mother is and if he’s unconcerned by her absence or simply petrified in fear. Though we all give him a wide berth, I want to walk up to him and get a closer look at his dark gray fur speckled with white spots. But I know better than to frighten him, and I respect his vulnerability. Later that day, Ruth calls my mom to let her know that the wildlife experts think there’s nothing to be concerned about. The seal’s mother was probably out hunting and left her baby on the shore for a little bit. He seems to be patiently waiting for her return, content to lay there on the sand under the waning sun. I think about waiting, about newborns, about taking walks in hospitals and on beaches, about the warfare that it is to be alive, and I understand now that I am
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