I’ve never liked the water. But he did. He loved it. And he still would, if he had a chance. 

When he died, everything turned blue. Every Honda or Toyota that passed happened to be navy. I always seemed to miss sunrise or sunset, and the sky-blue day felt daunting. My fingertips and veins were blue all the time. In my dreams his white shirts were always stained turquoise. My mother left cartons of blueberries all around the house. 

A year after, the summer of 2012, I prepared myself for the sea. I was embarrassed of my chest so I wore a black Speedo (ironically, it showed off my awkward tween body even more). My mother and brother were busy chatting backshore, so I made my way to the water. 

My father loved the swash zone. He would pick me up and place me on top of his big feet and, together, we’d let the wave bores sink us into the quicksand. I was never scared back then, only curious. 

I loosened the straps of my Speedo and ran into the sea. If I was unprepared, if I did it fast and unprompted, I’d make it in. I tried my best to jump over the sandbar and make it into the breaker zone. But it was too late. Water was up my nose and I was gripping for evanescent sand. My brother’s hands, they pulled me above. I saw the sky. Pale blue. I saw his eyes, wide and dry. 

+++ 

Tonight I have no direction. I wander my college campus. I follow trails of autumn leaves down the hill, down to the river. I know it’s not safe to be alone at this hour. But the music from my headphones guide me to the railing of the pedestrian bridge. I allow the breeze to kiss my ears. Even in this evening dark I can make out the shadows of swans on the surface. They are still, hushed. Like me. 

My best friend and I, whom I used to kiss and who I’ve now lost, once talked about the True North. He was my True North. And now I’m drowning and I’m reminded how delicate my body is and how rough the water is. I finally understand why old men who sailed old wooden boats revered their compasses. It’s funny how something you can hide in the grasp of your hand can determine your life. 

I never liked the water. But he did. He loved it. And he still does, but I will never see him in the ocean again. 

This July he came to visit me at our house on the beach. I didn’t know it would be the last time. He came and we escaped to the basement bunk beds. He smelled like salt water. I could feel the sand lost in his hair. We wrapped damp white towels around each others’ bodies. I rested my nose beneath his chin. 

I wanted to tell him how beautiful it was, watching him from afar. I sat on the berm with my big sun hat, and he urged me to follow him in, but I of course shook my head. He raised his eyebrows, as he always used to do, then ran towards the water.

I loved looking at his skin, covered in bright white sunscreen. How his legs made deep footprints in the sand and his arms moved like a marathon runner. He was a living, breathing, touchable sun. And from the berm, from the berm I watched him rush through the waves. He dove into them, sinking. I was fearful how long he was under the water for. But right when my panic surfaced, I would see his face again. Looking at me. With that smile. Those indelible lips drawn upwards. And I was reminded I could breathe. 

By August we had made many trips to the sea. Sometimes by foot, sometimes in my mother’s car. Yet on this particular morning we didn’t mean to reach the water. We were just taking a walk, holding hands and chatting nonsense. 

And I won’t tell you what he said. Or what I said. And it’s not because it was mean or terrible, but because it was beautiful. So beautiful were the words two best friends speak when they are in love. When they know they must say goodbye. 

The end was coming. We made it to the water. 

Together we sat on the berms. And what we said to each other, that is only for us to know. Our salty tears. Our eyes shape shifting to blue marbles. 

I told him how I would never forget our trip to Newport. He wore a blue sweatshirt, and I wore denim overalls. It was an early morning in October. There was an old playground on the beach so we ran to the swing sets. 21-year-olds kicking the air, challenging each other to see who could fly the highest. I looked at him. I looked at the sea ahead. I looked to the sky. 

And it was all blue. 

And it was all eternal.