The Coast

March 16, 2011

My last vivid memory of you was from several years ago when we drove to the coast. I drove, actually, and we listened to Daft Punk and you told me that you loved this album. So did I.

We got to the coast and it was foggy. We walked down an unmarked hill towards the shore and you walked down the steep wooden steps ahead of me. Not looking back. Not taking notes. You had your shoes off before you even hit the sand. It was cold. Damp. Reminiscent of similar trips to the coast as a child, thinking the beach would be bright and sunny and it predictably being cold and wet.

You walked toward the water and disappeared into the fog. I took a picture. It is the last picture I have of you. One of maybe a handful in my possession. I still only have two pictures of the two of us: one candid when I was 15 and we were laughing hysterically on a trampoline. We’re both falling out of the frame. The other is of our hands in a review mirror. We were driving to the zoo.

We didn’t say much on the beach.

It’s so funny my last vivid memory of you is walking into that fog. Walking away from me. Your last memory of me is probably finding me already asleep in your bed, crawling in next to me, and falling asleep with our backs towards each other. I woke up the same way, far away. We both left. There wasn’t much left to say. I think I’m happier remembering you walking away from me, and me walking away from you.

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3 Responses to “The Coast”

  1. Arlen said

    I am deeply sorry.

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