꧁ Water Nymphs ꧂

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The puddle before my feet is evidence of the snow that once covered the vibrant green grass that was here the summer before, the summer when it happened. The cool spring breeze pushes my hair into my face, and I impatiently tie it back.

The trees with their few leaves rustle, reminding me of why I'm here, and what I came to do. I gaze down at the puddle, and a girl stares back. Her brown hair is stringy and unkept, and she has bags under her eyes, which are bloodshot, giving away the many sleepless nights spent crying silently into her pillow. I step into the puddle, and the image ripples, then disappears.

As I walk down the trail, the smell of burning wood brings back the memories of him and I sitting on moss covered logs surrounding a little fire. He had spent an hour searching for the best firewood in this forest, and when he returned to our tent, night had already fallen. We had spent the night in each other's arms, counting the stars.

A little farther down the trail and I reach the lake. The lake that we had canoed on the day he asked me to be his girlfriend. He had scared me half to death when he stood up in our tiny green canoe and yelled out to the shimmering blue and green water, the kind you would imagine water-nymphs to live in, that he was the luckiest guy on the planet to be able to sit next to me at the moment. That he wondered if his luck would carry out long enough for me to answer yes to his long awaited question. And then he turned around to face me, and asked if I was willing to be his girlfriend, because he had never met a girl as pure and sweet as me, and with a laugh that made sure everyone within a mile radius would stop and stare.

And of course I said yes.

Little did he know that no one saw me smile anymore, let alone laugh. I close my eyes and listen to the water splashing against the rocks, letting my body sway in time with the waves. I take a breath, but all of a sudden the memories come rushing back, the sound of his voice as he sang along to songs on the radio as we drove here, the light in his eyes as he stared out at the lake, and the goofy smile that transformed his face when he saw that there was no one else here but us.

I want to cry, but I can't, as if I already used up all my tears. There's a pressure building up behind my chest, a nagging feeling that I shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be here, shouldn't be throwing his goddamn ashes into the water. But I ignore it, and unzip my backpack anyway, pulling out the jar.

I sigh, and pull off the lid. The jar is white, with silver and black metallic designs etched into the sides. I run a finger over the debossed pattern, and whisper a quiet goodbye.

I kick off my shoes, pull off my socks and step into the cold water. The wet sand and rocks of the lake bed dig into my heels, and I cradle the jar of ashes in my arms, unable to bring myself to empty it.

I heave a deep breath, and squeeze my eyes shut, as if blocking out the world will make this easier. It doesn't.

I open my eyes, and grab a fistful of his ashes. I throw it into the water, and finally feel the sting of tears as the reality of what I'm doing hits me with blunt force.

I grab another handful and release it, watching swirls of grey mix with the clear water and my tears, creating a morbidly beautiful sight.

I repeat the process over and over and over again, until the jar is empty, and my face is streaked with the translucent tracks of dried tears.

Maybe he'll make friends with the water nymphs.

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⏰ Last updated: Jul 05, 2022 ⏰

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