Flesh & Bone

“Do you notice me?”

It’s been this way since we were kids.

Year after year of salty air. It curls my hair, seasons my skin, brines my nostrils. Season after season of crashing water, repetitive thump, thump, thumping, my bed shaking from high surf hundreds of feet below.

Some nights I would lie awake while he snored gently, wrapped in blankets across the room, perfectly at peace in himself, his world.

We always found ways to prove ourselves, but sports and school were not preferred arenas.

Racing on the path that sloped down the cliffs, slipping, sliding, skidding, skinning.

Bracing our bodies, hardening our faces into tough stoicism while we shuffled into the cold waves, salt entering fresh wounds.

Breaking our statuesque poses to sprint to the buoy, gasping for air while he splashed me with water, the recourse I received for Second Place. Every time.

Searching kelp patties, spears in hand, vying to impale the biggest fish.

Or the most fish.

Or the first fish.

Or the last fish.

The winning category determined by his luck.

Reprieve came only on the sand where we sat in silence, counting waves, birds, heartbeats. I never rested though. Would he start the clock again? But he never did. We just sat.

Each time, as we walked back up the path, we were almost friends.

Almost.

Then we’d reach the oak tree at the end of the drive and the race was back on.

Panting, I’d reach the kitchen window second, pulling up to hear him already telling momma of his greatness. Through the brine I’d smell dinner and feel hunger. Momma was so kind, always turning to look me in the eye and listen to my tales. I tried my best for her, but I knew they were second too.

Every day. Every summer. The ritual.

Tonight after dinner, instead of going to my room to read, I slip out the front door.

“Do you notice me?”

I’ll go down to the beach, but at the oak tree I turn right, away from the sloping path. The light and house noise submerge beneath the saltwater roar.

“Do you notice me?”

I scan the cliffs, toeing the edges to see if they hold. I find a spot where rocks don’t crumble. I descend.

Momma has always kept us away from the cliffs. It didn’t bother me, I’m not stupid. But this has never been done, not even by him. Then I’ll have a story.

“Do you notice me?”

About ten feet down my foot slips on gravel. My tailbone hits rock and I slide. 5 feet. 10 feet. I gain speed. I flip to my stomach, heart beating against the back of my tongue, losing fingernails as I grasp at everything. I look up to the top of the cliff sliding away.

He’s not there. He never was. He never will be.

My knees buckle as my foot hits stone and I stop violently.

I’m shaking. First from adrenaline. Then fear. Then sobs.

Saltwater lines run through the film of dust on my face, stinging abrasions, curling my hair, brining my nostrils.

I lift my face when the tremors have gone. I spin around gingerly, feet glued to the giant rock beneath me, sitting on the edge of a straight drop to the water. I wrap my arms around my knees.

I squint through the golden sun and white sea spray. The reflective blue is endless. It is stoic. It is unflinching, uncaring, unrelenting with its thump, thump, thumping against earth.

A rock I must’ve kicked on the way down comes loose from somewhere behind, above me. I don’t look. I don’t care. Let it hit me.

It tumbles past, over the rock lip, out of sight and into obscurity.

Looks peaceful.

“He’ll never notice me.”

I wish I didn’t care.