Confluence in General

Today is two years since Sandy committed suicide. I still haven’t reconciled that, between who I knew as, and who she was. I still can’t comprehend how deep into a dark hole you would have to go to do what she did.

Our last exchange was her editing a short story I was submitted as part of my MFA. I asked if she had time to take an editorial look and she said “send it.”
So I emailed her the story. Withing an hour she came back with some pretty astute observations.

I tend to write fast, and I miss the disconnects. She caught them all.
A week later she was dead.

I miss her. I miss the Sunday morning calls, as I was watching the Sunday news shows and as she was going on duty. As regular as a heartbeat.

Today I went to the beach. Put on my wetsuit and fought waves for an hour. Good god was it rough. And awesome.

It was like the surf had teeth. It tossed me around like a rag doll. Being a fairly accomplished swimmer, not to mention a former lifeguard I knew when to just give up and let the ocean beat me into submission.

By the time I made it back to my chair, stripped off the wetsuit and sat down I was exhausted. But it was a good exhaustion. The waves were crossing the trobolo to the Fox Islands.

Sandy visited me once, and we made it to the beach. She spent hours swimming and surfing along the tombolo.

I can’t go to the beach and see the trombolo and not remember her.