The waves rise and fall and crash in a gentle rhythm, and I can almost forget. I get to the lighthouse, turn around, and my footsteps are already gone. I like that. But there are certain things you can’t erase, no matter how hard you try. Words that you cannot unsay, actions that you cannot undo.
A comber washes up on the beach, soaking my ankles, and I remember the last time we came out here. We had bonded over our mutual love of the beach, the smell of salt air, the warmth of sand through our flip flops, the coconut smell of sunscreen, the harsh cry of seabirds, the crash and splash of the waves. We were never happier than when we were splashing in the waves, hunting for shells, or simply lying on towels next to each other.
I continue walking, automatically looking down for any unique shells that might catch my eye. It’s low tide, so the beach is lined with bits of shell. I scoop up a handful, letting the tiny fragments slide through my fingers in waves of iridescent color. Green, blue, red, purple, and pearl fall in a cascade as I watch, more memories coming to the surface. A flash of light catches my eye, and I dig up a broken bit of bottle, sighing to myself. Despite the signs posted all over, people still throw their trash all over the place. It’s not as bad as it used to be when I was a kid, though. Back then, we couldn’t walk five feet down the beach without coming across litter.
My vigilance pays off as I scoop up a perfectly formed abalone, the pearl of the shell turning to rainbow as the sun light hits it. I place it in my pocket, my fingers running along the smooth edges. I turn my face towards the ocean, the smell of the salt stirring up my own salty tears. Why had I allowed it to end over such a petty thing? Why had I thrown away the best friend I had ever known over such a stupid, pointless argument?
I clutch the shell in my pocket, watching as the waves roll and crash on shore in an endless rhythm. As much as I want to forget everything, the beach won’t let me. Everywhere I go, I see us together.
My fingers trace the pattern of the shell, and I feel something stirring up in my soul as I watch the ancient ocean continue as it has always done. Maybe, I think to myself, just maybe, there is still a chance to salvage this. I just hope she’s willing to listen.
Back at the house, I pull out a sheet of paper. Now comes the hardest correspondence I will ever write.
“Dear Sarah….”