Do you remember how when we were kids, you taught me how to swim? And when we grew up, you always told me to stay away from waters unless you’re near? You knew how clumsy I could be on all the wrong moments.
But I never worry then.
You were always there to be my lifeguard whether in swimming or in real life. You have always been my floatation device when I’m about to drown, and my lookout when I’m already wading near the deep ends of the waters. You never let me go through any of it alone. That’s why when you’d left, I had a hard time adjusting and keeping afloat, even when I’m not in the waters, even when my feet is flatly on the ground. I feel like I’ll never learn how to float again, and my feet will never find its stability again.
I wish you pushed me harder in lessons.
But how can I blame you? That’s how you’ve always been, comfortable in being relied to, and that’s how I’ve always been, quitting before I even started and just comfortable on depending on you. You said that’s why we clicked on everything.
Sometimes when I’m near the beach, I can still hear your voice ringing through my ears, loud and clear, like it was just yesterday, reminding me to keep to the shore and to not go through the deep waters unless if I’m with you.
Sometimes, I go to the beach alone, because that is when your voice is loudest, that is where my memories of you are the most clear, roaring above the ocean’s wave. And most because, that is where I lose you.
I don’t think I will ever forgive the ocean for never giving you back to me.
Until now, I never manage to learn how to swim, and I’ve never been comfortable again with waters. I don’t think I will ever be, since you’ve been gone.
**…continuation from a post titled, 17.