Losing Lori

I didn't really want you to be near the water again, to be honest. Not after the way I found you.

But after that day it was like you knew you scared me, and you liked it. You wanted to scare me every morning. So you woke up at nine every single day, rain or shine, and you went to the beach. You didn't swim like you had before, and when you came home you weren't covered in shells and salt. Instead, your feet were sandy and you smelled like fresh air.

I'd watch you, if I woke up early enough. You always walked along the shore, your hands thrown out on either side of you, as if you were flying. Your shirt - usually a button up - would fly out from behind you, white and billowing in the soft breeze. Just like a bird, you'd soar across the sand on your own two human feet, because as much as you wanted to believe it, you could never fly.

I wonder if you got your wish, Lori. When you left me for the states, I mean. Did you compare flying like a bird to flying in a plane? Or was it too average Joe for you? I don't want to know.

For now, let me just focus on the memories I have of you.

You, on that beach, your arms out and your gait slow, as you covered every inch of the shore. You wanted to terrify me, but it only worked for so long. I realized you weren't going anywhere for good, not yet. You just wanted to feel free.

You eventually got what you wanted, didn't you? You got on that plane. You left me here, alone and broken.

You left me.