if you forget me I

The waves crash softly to the beat of my heart. I close my eyes, my feet sinking into the sand. The wind blows, gently brushing my hair into my face. I smell the sea salt. Did Sophia smell it?

Eventually I feel a nudge. “C’mon Asyle,” My mom’s eyes are red from crying. Her hand on my shoulder feels out of place. Her hands to small, my burden to great.

I nod, swallowing the lump building up in my throat. “Okay,” I manage to croak. I look down at the bouquet of flowers I hold. Peonies. Her favorite. I crouch down and lay the bouquet on the beach softly. “By, Sophie,” I whisper one last time.

Then the tears come, rolling down my cheeks in large drops. My mom cries to. We sob together, trying to bear the weight, yet inevitably failing.

Eventually the burst of tears subside. They come more frequent now; memories are the ghosts in our minds. I pull my jacket closer around me, the November air chilly.

“Looks like a storm’s coming,” Mom points at clouds, dark and ominous.

I nod, trying to make it seem like conversation’s easy between us.

“We better go back to the house. I want to leave in about an hour,” She glances at her watch on her wrist. “I guess this is the end of Virginia Beach.”

“Yeah,” I say. Then the sky starts to spit rain. I begin to run back to our house. I wonder how much rain Sophie saw when she walked out of our beach house.

I wonder if she was upset with me. She probably was.

When she walked into the rain and didn’t look back.

That was the last time we saw her.