But Mickey was long past
being saved by safety.
I walk to the edge of the water
where I can still hear their voices
mixed with the ocean.
The lifeguard stand beside me
is empty and bare
except for one thing:
a long black ribbon
faded to gray,
the name Cindy
printed in gold-turned-yellow.
The girl who drowned at spring break.
That’s how she’ll be remembered—
for her death,
not her life,
as people our age always are.
Did she become a ghost?
Is she standing next to me
right this second?
Has she already passed on?
My own trip to peace,
too long and too strange,
is nearing the end.
Mickey was my last,
biggest,
scariest
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detour.
Behind me I hear Krista say,