A Story About How I’m Going To Remember You

A sedan by the coast. The paint faded from years in the sun. Its dim headlights catch the tops of the waves, making their frothy breaks shimmer and glisten. The soft sounds of the sea and the smell of the kelp as it clings to the rotting wood of the pier.

The cliffside rushes into the sea, jagged edges disappearing into the dark grey water of the Atlantic. Memories scattered along the shore of feet smaller than ours jumping across the tops of the rocks and splashing in the shallow pools that formed in the early morning. The wind nearly blowing our tiny bodies over as we’d race to the waterfall.

We stood there waiting for the tide to come back in to wash it all away.

The wind pushes against your hair, revealing the softness of your face, before it falls right back into place. The sky open. A deep navy that stretches on forever as it follows lonely tufts of cloud moving toward the horizon. I can smell the leather from your jacket. Maybe I am too close. But I can’t pull myself away. So instead I stare at the creases forming around the elbows. I follow their rough lines up to your neck until I meet your glance.

I told you not to worry about me. The grin hiding behind your eyes tells me you won’t. The salt gets tangled in our hair. And I try my best to keep my hands busy. The hairs on my neck raise in the cold. A glance turns into a gaze. But it was fleeting. Just like these times.

You are too close for me to see clearly. But it’s best that way. The rocks we used to climb silhouette into the sky. A deep charcoal that paints the shore.

This is how I’ll always remember you.