Mia Macias

Born in Santa Barbara CA, Feb 25, 2005.
Send Message

Sandcastles

A group of three is highly vulnerable to life, as a tripod camera is bound to tip over and shatter upon removal of any single leg. What remains is a stand of 2 legs, deemed easily disposable by any onlooker.

One day, a tripod's worst nightmare fatefully manifested and so three became two.

But to fatalistics, two is perceived only as 1 + 1, and upon the removal of one, there would equal only one. And thus, perception of our existence became an easily disposable one. Life was swept by the clumsy winds of fate, the same palm-rustling and wave-trashing breeze still heard in the dark beneath shut eyes today. The breeze which shook two in the midst of grief as they lay back to “sleep” after life swerved to a sideroad

Away from next-day good mornings and future goodnights, which were tragically spared that bad night. Driven without control over any wheel, away from the crossroads, where I see she still lies asleep each passing day. Growing smaller, and smaller with time. And where I still lie, to myself that 1 + 1 = 2 and not 3.

Where mothers of happier families fantasize about children who will one day have their own children, who may certainly live to see the children of those children.

Tangible moments dissolved with the wind, as the sandcastles left behind by families on the shore as we walked by, the only audience to these final moments before going inside, and shutting the outside world out. Never again to see that light. Remaining now are internal memories. Of our last hours where an oblivious mother and daughter, a 2 of thirds walked side by side beneath the red cast of a receding sun.

The same sun that today casts over left-behind shoes at the end of the hall, filled by the ghost of what would have been, walking shores of new beaches on future camping trips we would have happily skipped out on.

Away from the vivid memory of clapping waves mingled by the wind with mother-daughter laughter, to unpaved roads. Driven further, and further, and further by unharnessed time from what once was,

Oh no,
Please don’t go.

What if I can’t remember?

I’m sorry.

and further away from the one bad night I forgot to say,

Goodnight,

I love you mom
57 Total read