Ships that have Sailed

 

Surfing the waves of my memories, I’m taken with the tide. Drowning, really. All those moments passed, pulling me further and further away from the shoreline.

And suddenly I can’t see the land. Suddenly I’m so far out that all I do is cry, gasping for air–drawing in large gulps of water. Sinking. I let go. My body limp with the release. Life passing before my eyes. Life that I can no longer grasp, because I am too far in. Too weak from struggling.

I hear songs we used to dance to. I remember his silly arms, awkward and flying around in the happiest manners. My eyes are open. I remember his beautiful smile. His laughter.

My body no longer jerks to fight what’s happening. I just sink. Remembering.

His two year old eyes. “I love your pocket, Mommy,” he says as he holds the locket around my neck.

His eight year old self baring scratches on his knees, learning to ride his bike in the alleyway.

His nine year old desperation. “I can no longer respect him.”

His twelve year old glee. “I can’t believe I’m about to be a teenager.”

And it’s all being swept away. Pulled really. Further and further away from me. I try to reach for it, but the water is strong against me. The water is so heavy, and my body feels like lead. I am screaming, but water muffles my cries. No one can hear me; no one knows I’m here.

Everyone is going on with their lives, thinking about their own ships that have sailed.

And I’m alone again.

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