I remember checking my mail and finding a picture of a man and his sand sculpture. “It reminded me of you,” was all you had written. Back then I took it as a compliment; as a cute sign of hope that even when you were seven hours away and angry you couldn’t get me off your mind.

But now I wonder why it was this man with his straight face, uncombed hair, and a big pile of sand who was the one to get you to break your vow of silence. My letters couldn’t do it—not the ones that told you I was sorry, angry, or that I couldn’t stop loving you. My phone calls couldn’t even do it—and you of all people should know how significant a phone call from me is. No, it was this bearded man.

Or perhaps it was the pile of sand.

Perhaps it was the way the billions of little kernels cemented together to make his dolphin. Each of the grains different—some smooth, some jagged, some clear, some brown—and each one having a counterpart that challenged the existence of the first. It’s always fascinated me the way so many seemingly disjointed pieces of ground can be forced together into one common object and be called beautiful.

It’s impossible to know the reality of why this picture did it for you because, “It reminded me of you,” are the last words of yours I’ve seen. It’s just a picture, but sometimes I pull it out and feel a sense of satisfaction knowing that you’ll never again be able to look at the shores of Lake Michigan without feeling me.

And I’ll never again be able to look at a wave without thinking of the one you captured in that photo—the one looming behind the man—because I know the second after you snapped it it crashed angrily onto the beach dismantling the dolphin that once reminded you of me.
Last edited by Cyclones41 at May 9, 2013,