Do you remember how you wrote my name in the sand? My name, with yours, and two small twigs for a plus sign. We surrounded it with shiny pebbles, and guarded that with the turrets of a castle. We were children, after all. It seemed as strong as it could be.
But we never could get that right. None of it. Not at the same time. Not so we could make it real.
When I was me, you were broken beyond belief. The demons had overtaken you somehow, and they were a swarm I couldn't live with. I was too young and too ignorant and too naive to do anything that could have helped. And you didn't want me seeing you that way. I don't blame you.
When I was me, you had flown high, high up into the clouds. And I was too heavy to carry, weighed down as I was by my everything. I wouldn't even let you try. You were angry, so I turned my back and ran. You had turned transcendent, too light to stay on the ground. You were caught up in your bliss. I was grounded by my own.
When you were you, I had tied myself to another life, to another world. My everydays fed into each other, and yours opened up to so many unknowns. You liked it that way. I envied you that.
When you were you, I was lost and still looking for impossible anchors. I had unhitched myself. I had started to unravel. You wanted a tapestry that was pretty and strong enough to match your own, but my threads had loosened, and I was slowly coming undone. You knew that I would piece myself back together, you even helped with the weaving. But I had such a long way to go.
And now, here we are. You and I. And we stare at the space in the sand. We study the few pebbles left, trying to remember how happily we had looked for them, how ecstatic we were to have found them, how we had argued about which ones were just right.
We examine the space they used to contain. Where our names used to be, there is a shallow crevice, the smoothness marred only by the faint curve of a vowel, the whisper of a line of a name. The two twigs have floated off, so that now they can be anything.
(Those twigs. Those damn twigs. You insisted on making them smooth, precise, perfect. I don't quite remember how.)
We breathe in the sticky sea air. And we know the tide is coming, as it always does. Quietly, we watch, unmoving as the next wave rolls lightly over our bare feet, rushing over the wet sand between us, taking everything. Until even the heaviest pebble has been washed away, and even the barest hint of a crevice is gone.
Originally published on Tumblr, May 2010.