Select Works

To You

The dips and hollows of old footprints are shadowed by the setting sun. My feet avoid them, sticking to the sunny peaks that aren't so cold. All the sand will be freezing once the sun falls below the horizon. I hope our walk is over before that happens. I don't really want to be here anyways, but Mom said she wanted to take a walk, so I went with her as I always do. She says she wants to spend some time out on the sand before we leave tomorrow. I agree, but...

I love the beach. I really do. The sand is soft as it cradles my steps, sloping gently into the awaiting sea that spreads out in a vast expanse of blue green. The sky kisses its surface at the edge of the horizon, blushing pink. Soft, smooth waves lap against the shoreline, and I wish the water was warm enough to step in. It isn't. It is freezing. It is November.

"Oh, isn't this so nice?" she says. It could be if you were here.

"Mhm," is all I answer. I would have had more to say had you been the one to ask me that question.

We continue walking down the path through the dunes, my feet beginning to ache from how cold the sand is. My steps are stiff and with a purpose, but I try my best to not look too unhappy around my mother. She wouldn't handle my unhappiness too well. How would you handle me? Would I even be unhappy if I was with you right now? No, I shouldn't think like that. Not when you aren't here, but my mother is—my mother who was kind enough to take me with her on this trip, who loves me, who tries so hard.

I slow, letting her catch up, reminding myself I don't need to run away from her.

An old log has washed up on shore, chipped, worn, and mostly covered in sand. Mom asks me if I want to sit, and I murmur an answer. The space to sit is small. I don't want to sit that close to her. Why, though? Even I don't know. It is nothing against my mother—I wouldn't sit that close to anyone—but I still feel bad. She is my mother, a mother who has never wronged me. But she is foreign. The language I speak is one she cannot understand.

But you and I are natives of the same land.

I sit, watch the waves, try to pretend I am alone. It is easier to pretend I am alone than to pretend I am with you. Our time together was so short I can hardly remember it, only the feeling of being whole for once.

"Do you want to go on a walk?" My mother asks. She seems so happy to be here with me.

No. "Sure." I want to be alone.

And so, we walk. The wind is cold, and I bury my hands deep in my pockets. She has said before that she appreciates my silence, but it is times like these where it always seems like she has something to say. "Ooh, that's a cold wind." Yes, it is November. "So, is there anything else you want to get off your chest, vent about before we go home?" I am afraid to tell you anything because you will never be able to understand. Trust me, I have tried, that's all my childhood was: trying.

She gestures to a couple lying on the beach together, holding each other tightly to stave off the cold. "They need a bigger blanket," my mother says. I think the lack of one is their excuse to hold each other so close. Can you and I, someday, go out on a beach together and forget the quilt in the car?

I try my best to make small talk. It's like pulling teeth. Talking is the last thing I want to do, but the only thing I really know how to do is please. So, that is what I do. I entertain my mother's ramblings, feeling worse as we walk further. Why am I like this? Why do I have to be so unhappy?

It makes me wonder; would you make me happy? In my mind you do, but in reality? The time we had to be ourselves together was so short. I romanticize you too much. But then again, I wouldn't romanticize you if you didn't deserve it. She asks me if I want to turn around and head back. I refrain from sounding too eager.

The walk back is colder. I want your arm across my shoulders. But you—you're so far away, physically, and mentally too, I bet. We had only one night together, but it was the best night of my life. I found someone like me. Do you know how rare that is? You spoke to me like I'd never been spoken to before. Do you know how much that means to someone like me?

I have looked everywhere for you. I thought that if I found you somewhere else, I could find a replacement, a substitute, a fix. I looked in different places, different things, different people. You are the only you I've found. I ache at the thought of you. Worse, you are a hole in my chest, a gaping wound that collapses my lungs and drowns me in my own blood.

Do you know what hurts even more? The thought that you probably don't feel the same. No one ever does. I thought this story would be about my mother, but it isn't. It is about you. Do you see now how much you invade my every thought?

By the time we reach the boardwalk, my feet are so cold they hurt, no more sunny spots in the sand to warm my toes.

"Wasn't that wonderful? I'm so glad you came with me," my mother says. I want so badly to be able to say the same.

I look at the sea and all I can think about is how much more beautiful it would be if you were the one by my side. 

November 2021