Washed Away
By Penina Satlow
      The little girl used to tell me her secrets in the form of breadcrumbs. She would toss her hidden sin and guilt to me, and I would whisk it away, leaving her calm and serene, repented, forgiven, as her mother gently held her hand. She would come to me once a year, and our meetings were joyous. I watched her grow and change. I noted the year she did not hold her mother’s hand. I saw the changes in her smile, her laugh, and I carried her burdens to the sea.
She came to me more often as she entered her teenage years. She would introduce boys to me, holding them by the hand. She used me, the serenity, the quiet, and most importantly the privacy that my shady banks offered her. I grew jealous of these boys, who took her attention away from me. I saw them touch her as I never had. I saw the mosquito bites on her breasts. I saw her melt to the boys as they proclaimed words of love, of lust. I saw her accept their weight eagerly on top of her, her elbows scraping against my rocks and mud. I rushed in to reprimand, trying to tell her how I felt, but she could not hear me. She was too preoccupied with the feeling of their mouths against hers, their fingers through her hair, their whispers in her ears. She was enthralled, captivated, by their words meant only for her ears. I carried these words to the sea.
It saddened me to see her cry. One by one she dismissed the boys. Some left more willingly than others, but in the end she insisted and they stopped coming to me. I tried to comfort her, and she heard me, faintly, distantly, over the sounds of her sobs. The boys who made her sad were not welcome anymore. It would just be me and her, and I would carry her tears to the sea.
She began to come to me alone and I babbled with joy. I would beckon her closer and she would obey, dipping her toes into my little waves, holding her shoes in two fingers. She would sit, dangling her legs into the shallows, furiously scrawling into a small blank book on her lap. I would call to her and she would look to me for a minute, stare at me. I had never seen such intense longing in her eyes. I watched as she filled up page after page. I watched as the crimson scratches began to appear on her arms. I watched as she took a hit of her first joint, took her first shot of tequila. She tried to ignore me, tried to only hear the heartbeat in her ears, but I took the bleeding, ripped pages of her journal, the cigarette stubs, the empty alcohol bottles, and I carried them to the sea.
Now she is the one I carry. She loves me, more than the boys, more than herself, more than life. She heard my calling and she came to me, finally, after all these years. She entered me slowly, testing the waters. I made room for her as I have always longed to do, making extra room for the stones in her pockets. She entered me and I engulfed her, and now we are one, as I carry her to the sea.