I dreamed of her again last night. If I’m honest, I’d thought all that was over, faded with the sails over the horizon and the endless sighing and splashing and crashing of the waves. But no. Some echoes never stop sounding.

I remember she told me of the turtles, huge and slow, surprisingly deft as they slipped between here and there, now and then. To each other, they speak of islands as of old friends. To each other, they are islands. I’d never thought of that, before her.

Mostly I miss her hair, that slight blue-green tinge, and the way her skin always tasted of salt. Smooth like pebbles are smooth, like scales are smooth, I watched as she slid silently from the stones of the jetty into the sea, that last time. I think she was laughing.

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