Do you remember how it began? We were walking along the cliffs and laughing at the signs that warned of the danger. You pointed to the beach below where the seals were mating. You had just told me about their rituals of reproduction as I watched their awkward, salty, sandy bodies move. And a minute later you were screaming. I ran to the gap in the trail where you’d skipped ahead and turned to face me, giving me the final part of the seal dance in gruesome details. I bent in laughter and you were gone. The wind blew and scattered your screams.
I rushed to the break in the trail and began to scramble down to save you. But I had no ability to save you. I grabbed one rock and another until I could see you. I don’t want to remember the look in your eyes. Terror is too difficult to share. I called out and told you to hang on. The spot where you’d landed looked more dangerous each time the waves crashed below. A pound of dirt could move the wrong way and the ground below you would give. I slowed to a creep, realizing that I too could upset the balance that hung so delicately on the side of the cliff. You kept screaming and I kept trying to quiet you. I worried that even the sound could move through the air and displace the earth.
And then above us, a man called down. Don’t move, either of you. Don’t move. Don’t speak unless I tell you. I am with the rescue squad. Stay calm.
Do you remember all that? The worst day of my life. I hope you aren’t remembering that as you lie dying. I only want you to remember the joyful times, the safe times, everything before and after the fall. Remember the rescue squad who scooped us up with the helicopter and took us to solid ground. Remember that. Relief. The gratitude for being alive that I believe has stayed with you ever since.
Remember that I love you as you fade away. I will hold your hand until you’re gone.