Saving the Sea

by amandalove113

Something about the sea always amazed Bella Swan, even as a child. Crashing, retreating, infinite. The sea did not know time, heartache, or the flaws of the humans who become amazed by the power of the universe. She wished to become the sea. She wanted to know nothing more than the stars above and the dance with the stable shore. She wanted to be OK. She wanted to feel safe, saved.

9:45 pm on a Wednesday night. I continued my journey across her stoned path up to her door. Her solar lights were blazing bright and illuminated the cracks and errors she'd made installing her path. I smiled, remembering the summer day she agonized on making it perfect. The town had mostly nestled into their small homes, with TVs whispering or the hush to little children who had yet to fall into slumber. Thursday's sun would rise and a new day would begin. People would rise and stretch and wish to succumb into their wombs of blankets. 9:46 pm and my heart dropped to the bottom of the lining of my stomach. She wasn't back yet.

The key felt heavy in my hand. It was burrowed in my hand for what seemed to be forever. It was hot and sweaty and I could smell the metal of its finish. Careful not to break the measly hunk of metallic in my palm, I slowly twisted the key in place. I thought about walking back. I'd been here seven times already simply today. Nothing would change. I would recall of the memories of our life here. I would hear the talking of the walls and the conversations they kept secret and the images of her departing, hurriedly.

Despite my worry, I entered. I entered and felt the darkness consume me, the same way I imagine she felt before she left. I told her to wait for the morning, that I would take her whenever she needed to go. Of course, these are instructions she'd never listen to. She lived on her own agenda. But how could I miss her leaving?

I flicked on the switch in the kitchen. She'd taken almost nothing with her, as if she'd be back. On her oak table in the middle of her crowded kitchen, I picked up the tiny fragments of paper to build the pieces that made her. I read slowly, cherishing her beautiful memory. Strawberries. The first snow fall in winter. Travel. Language. Dreams that make you think. Tea with lemon. The feeling of falling. Coffee in the middle of the night. She was the girl to reminisce. She kept a small jar of her favorite memories. None of them included me. I thought about taking her jar with me, to read through them all night. It seemed as though I was an invader. I wanted to keep everything the same, as though her home was now a museum now that she was gone. I needed to preserve all I could in the event I began to forget who she was. I doubted it, though. I doubted that you could forget someone like Isabella Marie Swan.

Her small home felt the same. I could still smell the faint touches of her musky perfume she applied religiously, even before climbing in bed. I could feel the heat of a warm atmosphere, could almost hear the gentle hum of the radio upstairs. I closed my eyes, imagining her descent from her crooked stairs and into my arms, with freesia scented hair in a tangled, wavy mess. I stared out to the lake, looming beneath her hilled property. Its waves crashed and thundered without care for the eroding shore. I miss her. I missed her more than anything I'd ever missed before, despite my lengthy life. I realized her boat was gone when I ventured here 168 hours prior to this moment. She feared the water. She couldn't have gone out there, not alone… It was too cold, too rough, too quiet. The only piece of her closet missing was a cable knit sweater, her black scarf, a pair of jeans. How far could a human make it in this harsh climate? The coast guard was looking. I'd assembled searches in the forests. I figured she'd become scared and anxious and return. I couldn't catch her scent. I couldn't remember her voice. Is this how people faded? I returned to the atmosphere stood in, trying to relax my shoulders and rubbing my temples. Everything in her habitat here felt the same and that is what scared me. How could someone be gone, invisible, and still have a remaining presence?

She had been gone for a week and two days. Two hundred and sixteen hours. She told me not to follow her because she needed to be independent. She felt comfortable in her solitude. She needed to think, to breathe, to get out of the small town her home resided in. She was the master of excuses and she knew I'd let her go. She knew it all along. Was that her plan?

In that moment, I wish I'd paid more attention. What was I missing? What part of her couldn't I understand? And was that why she left me, with nothing but a rusty key and a home full of memories?