Foam

I gazed at your face once more. Rounder than I remembered, smaller, chubbier. Your hair looked heavy and weak as if the water was weighing it down. Water dripped down your face like sweat. Eyes loud and expressive, but sad. Slightly tilted and empty. Not as vibrant as last summer, last night, trying to hold back the tears, every muscle on your body was tense, on edge. “What are you doing Logan? Pull me up!” you cried. I just noticed how my veins had showed themselves. I held you tight with only one of my limbs. Water dripped down my arm and gently caressed our hands, tightly connected like a knot. I’m not going to let you go. But why am I not pulling you up?  Shouldn’t I? The knot loosened up a bit and your tiny palm slipped a little. I glanced at the bottom. A blue chaos. An angry ocean panicking under your elevated feet. White foam covered the surface of the ocean and a type of steam blurred the picture. You never liked foam I remember. You liked beer, you always drank mine, but you didn’t like the foam, you scooped it out with that spoon you used to carry. You certainly are not going to particularly enjoy this foam. I pictured you getting lost at once. Eaten alive by the strength of the water. Like a million arms pulling you down and a deadly blue blanket putting you to sleep at last, right after stealing all the air out your lungs. “Logan I’m falling, what are you waiting for?” What am I waiting for? Should I pull you up? Why am I questioning this? My arm stretched a little more; I’m getting tired. I know I don’t have much time to decide. What would happen if I let you go? If you drowned? Would anyone find out? Would I be able to finally do everything I loved and you hated? Your face flashed with surprise, mouth wide open, eyes searching, wondering and at last, realising. I suppose the answer is yes. I’m sorry.