Marie Thurmer

We waded in the shallows, holding his hands, then just fingertips, as his feet slowly lifted off the bottom. The land did not stop at the waterline, but simply became unreachable. His worn face bobbed above the waves, breath in an O as our words, fistfuls of shimmering minnows, scattered, lost on their way to him. The tide carried him out, then back a bit, a gradual letting go into dark waters, and we, still in the ebb, could almost mistake that O for the response we wanted— on the ins,I’ll remember you, on the outs,goodbye.