It’s not just on sunny days that I thank the saltwaters for bringing you to me. But it was sunny that day I was walking barefoot on the beach, thinking it all looks the same. Sand. Sky. Sea. But then, I saw you.

It could have been anyone else. Do you realize how much you look like the rest from afar? But in my eyes, the light seemed to bounce off you. I could have walked on, but for some reason I stopped. And I’m glad I did stop. Long enough to pick you up, long enough to feel every rise and every fall, long enough to run my fingers over all the places sand somehow found its way into, all the edges that sometimes hurt the hands that hold you, and you sometimes hurt me but

Don’t wish to be washed away just because you have.

I know you get tired of the ocean and how the waters break against your back day after day, but know that each time they do, a piece of your past chips off. A bit of weakness is made strong. The ocean is shaping you and it isn’t done with you just yet.

Don’t forget this.

I hope that you don’t see yourself as leftovers. Who hasn’t had someone leave them before? You are more than something that was left behind. You are not its ghost. There is beauty in the way you’ve kept your shell, in the way you still hold against the currents, in the way you refuse to let wind and weather steal your colors. Maybe you don’t know it, or maybe you’ve been waiting for the right eyes and hands to see it for you.

But I see it. I do. And I hope you’ll let me help you make it through. There are still so many sunny days we’ve yet to walk in.


“Do you still remember Russia?”

I remember carpeted floors and eating peanut butter straight out of a jar. I remember dancing in the living room with Sleeping Beauty on repeat. I remember blue-eyed, yellow-haired angels slipping in and out of my door -- creatures whose words I could never quite follow but somehow, always understood.

“Do you still remember Russia?”

I remember that a land covered in ice and trees and sprinkled with grand palaces used to be a place I called home. It still is. And strangely enough, I do remember. I remember it well.

“Do you still remember Russia?”

Ask me and I will give you scenes from a movie. Sledding down a snowy hill. Walking through tables full of matryoshka dolls at the market. Playing with ladybugs in the spring. You know, like a montage. No particular sequence, but full of color and movement.
Today, my floors aren’t carpeted. I don’t (always) eat peanut butter straight out of a jar. I don’t put Sleeping Beauty on repeat, (but I still dance) and angels don’t slip in and out of my door anymore. Much has changed but not the fact that my home used to be where these very memories were birthed, but who knows? Maybe one day, I’ll get to see that land covered in ice and trees and sprinkled with grand palaces, and maybe…

I’ll get to call it home again.


Currently taking a creative writing class in school. Will be filing these assignments under the tag CW 10.