To the Sea

Lifeless. Desolate. Meaningless.

That is how my days felt after you left. After you hastily sawed through the thread of your being, leaving me grasping for the frayed tendrils that fell through my fingers like sand.

Should I have known? Should I have done something different? Would you have told me if I’d asked?

I will never know.

The uncertainty makes the tears that fall all the more bitter and biting. Was it my fault? Was it because of the fight we had? A fight you started. A fight that escalated because you refused to acknowledge my feelings were valid.

It doesn’t matter now.

Any chances to apologize, to rectify our relationship evaporated with your last gasped breaths.

I don’t know when I started to collect them. Call it morbid curiosity. After crying myself through the hours for two weeks straight, I realized these feelings of all-consuming, overwhelming grief and guilt weren’t going to become strangers any time soon, and I wondered, how many tears would I cry for you?

“Mourning is natural, but this…it isn’t healthy…”

“You seem so isolated. Do you have someone to talk to? There’s nothing wrong with seeing a therapist…”

“It’s already been months. Have you spoken to any of your friends recently? I’m sure they’d love to hear from you…”

I heard the whispers, the murmured glances and concerned sighs from my parents and the students around me. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. I thought changing schools would make it easier. But you’re still here, lingering. At the neighborhood park down the street where we’d sit on the swings. At the convenience store where we’d get sodas after school. In my room, where we’d lay on the scratchy rug pretending to study. It’s your voice I hear and fingers I see whenever a trickle of music reaches my ears.

The assortment of glass jars haphazardly balanced on my windowsill is the accumulation of my heartache. When the pressure inside myself builds like a landslide threatening to drown me, these jars are my release. They are my Pensieve. I wish I had a magic wand to painlessly siphon off memories like Dumbledore did. But no, these memories had to be wrung from my heart and painstakingly gathered before they evaporated, leaving nothing but a trail of salt.

I stare at the glistening, clear liquid sloshing in a jar. If I swirl the tears just right, they seem to crystallize into spherical balls, like tiny crystal orbs, but rather than showing me the future, they show me snippets of our past. A soft smile, the sticky sweetness of melted ice cream on your lips, a pinky promise. But then the glass marbles disintegrate, and I’m left empty, empty but alive. And life plods on.

After ten months, I realize the jars necessary for capturing my sorrows have gotten smaller and smaller. The emptiness in my chest no longer feels so bleak. The frigid edges surrounding the gaping chasm where my heart once beat, has begun to thaw, and I am ready to step forward.

I blink, shielding my eyes from the ethereal glow reflecting from the water. A cool spring breeze slides through my auburn hair, and I breathe in the scent of salt, and sunshine, and the sea.

What was it you said when we came here for the first time?

“I want you to remember being here with me the next time you come back.”

I never thought I’d be coming back here alone.

I delicately remove the glass jars from my overstuffed backpack and place them one-by-one in the sand.

Breathe.

I can do this. I am ready.

I roll up the legs of my pants, slip off my shoes and creep into the still-chilly water until it laps against my shins, sending goosebumps parading across my skin. I bend down and unscrew the first lid with clammy fingers and begin to shakily pour. Thousands of droplets that were gathered over dozens of hours spill into the shimmering blue water. I gasp. Suddenly I’m not staring at a stream of collected tears. I’m watching hundreds of tiny, silver fish spread through the water like glittering diamonds.

This isn’t real. Blink, blink, squeeze. I re-open my eyes.

The tiny fish are still there, leaping and swirling. I splash back to shore to retrieve another jar, struggling with disbelieving fingers to unscrew the lid. More fish splash into the sea, their iridescent scales sending sparkles cascading across my body like light from a disco ball. Nine jars later, I’m surrounded by a swarming school of fluttering fish. They swirl around my ankles, tickling my skin, and feeding my heart. I turn back towards the shore one last time, and freeze.

A boy my age stands there, his toes at the water’s edge. A quick glance to my right and left reveals that the rest of the beach is still empty. Where did he come from? His dark hair is tousled and hides part of his face, but it doesn’t hide the flushed tinge on his cheeks, or the curiosity shining in his amber eyes. And in his outstretched hand he holds my last jar of tears. He gives me an uncertain smile. He looks vaguely familiar. My confusion must be obvious, because he points to my chest, before motioning to his own, and I realize he’s pointing to the emblem on my navy uniform. It matches the one on his.

Oh. We go to the same school. Except our school is hours away. Why would he be here? Could this place be important to him, too? He motions with a nod of his head to the water behind me.

“They’re beautiful,” he whispers.

“You can see them?” I gasp in shock.

He nods solemnly, lifting his hand and offering me the jar again. “It seems like they’re waiting.”

I swallow, suddenly nervous. What will happen once I release the last jar? I carefully accept the jar from his graceful hand and step back into the water. When the last tear enters the sea, the fish spring apart, as though carrying out a synchronized dance. I feel water splash my knees, and I realize the boy is standing beside me.

In awed silence we watch the fish dance, creating eddies and waves in the water. If I look hard enough, it’s as though I can see my memories reflected on their silver scales, like an old movie projection. Can he see them, too?

Slowly, the shimmer on the water fades, and the memories being revealed on the fishes’ scales dim, leaving brilliant silver scales. I suck in a loud breath, my throat tight and my skin hot. I can feel fresh tears building in my eyes. A gentle touch has me turning my head. The boy is holding my sweaty, clenched hand in his palms. Carefully, delicately, he uncurls my fingers and entwines his hand with mine. His hands are so much larger than mine, but a feeling of assurance seeps into my fingertips. It travels into my palm and up my arm.

My red eyes dart upward, tears freely cascading down my cheeks, and I see he’s watching me, a sense of understanding rippling in his brown eyes. We both face forward, hand-in-hand, watching as the thousands of tiny fish circle our legs one last time before heading to the horizon chasing the setting sun; heading out to sea. Free.

***

The tears still come occasionally, but I no longer collect them in re-used mason jars. Instead, they are kissed away by loving, understanding lips. There are comforting arms that hold me through my sadness, and gentle caresses that awaken my joy, filling me with warmth. There are strong, capable hands that dance across strings, and a wonderful, full voice that laughs and sings, serenading my soul once more. The once endless chasm in my chest has become whole, filled with a new collection of memories. But your memory is still there. It will always be there, no longer as an anchor, but instead another bright balloon, helping to lift me closer to the stars.