I traversed the coast to our childhood campsite, wondering if we were still welcome. I wondered what remained of the memory I had preserved for five years. I awaited the welcome of familiar fur- the kangaroos I had named all those years ago. Their proximity had never startled me. All I knew was how close wild things could be.

I found myself in a sort of reminiscent anticipation as I trod from rock to rock- so much so that the coastline around me blurred. Instead forefronted by the thick green foliage of ‘stick land’, were we used to hunt for marshmellow sticks. A smile tugged at my lips, as a soft hum of a familiar song vibrated through them.

Pebbly Beach was one of those sovereign places, who’s image never seemed to wilt in my memory. For no tear had ever been shed there; fears dissolved with the first step on the breathing dirt. Even the waves- the very ones that kept my back tense and pupils wide with trepidation of an approaching horizon- had, at Pebbly Beach, soothed me to sleep.

“We’ve made it!”, someone called out ahead. If not for the outline of the coast I might have doubted him.

Charred logs stood upright, as though they had been staked into place. The earth had sunken in; it’s malnourished face turned towards the ocean in a kind of apathy.

“Had it always been this quiet?”

The staircase we used to descend to the beach was charred and so we had to climb up the sand dunes. It was more difficult than I remembered. Each step sank before it touched the ground; sand scurrying away like vermin. It pooled into my boots, dragging me back down. I clawed upwards not knowing how long I had been crawling. When I reached the top, my feet ached as if the earth hadn’t finished tugging.

I lifted my head up to the red path that lead to the tent site. The path was still layed in red brick, only the path was sunken slightly, grass sprouting through gaps that didn’t previously exist. The path twisted in ways it never had through its usual trees. Though those aswell had differed; thinned like blading hair. They looked over the path. Suspended at awkward angles, as they intently observed. Holding their breaths, so they could hear every one of ours. The path used to be relatively short and straight, twisted and turned and lengthened, until finally it spat us out at the tent site.

“Wow the fire must not have reached here”, someone called out.

I wanted to gouge out their eyes. Obviously they were not being used right.

The tree stalk was gone.

I remember the photo (I could never forget). No, not the photo, the climb. Who got to stand the tallest. But it wasn’t just the climb, I remember the victory as I pulled you to the top. I think you stood beside me, or was that another year?

It’s hard to say now when both you and stalk are gone. The dirt where it was once stood looked dry. Accused.

The trees huffed around us. Their breath extended untill everything was lathered in the flow. Next came the laughter. Loud. Pitched and poisoned. It mixed with the cacophony of twitching leaves, flailing trees, and the echoes of laughter from an entirely different time.

It didn’t stop. The laughter got louder. The high pitched voice got prouder. I turned back the way I came. But it wasn’t the way I got there. I stumbled through it anyway. The ground was thumping with a familiar rhythm. The laughter followed me back to the sound of crashing waves. Pulling back like angrily combed hair before pounding into the skull.

“Hurry up before the waters too high to walk back!”

But I couldn’t leave, atleast not like this. I hurried to the grazed staircase, pressing my palm against it’s scorched skin. The creaking didn’t phase me, all I heard was laughter. Cold pain seemed through my palm. I pulled back. It came back black. A single line across my palm- not soot, not ash. Thread. I rubbed at it. It deepened. I turned away before it could unwravel.

———————————————

Woven in layer by layer.

You were my foundation, my addition, and now my subjugation.

Your name is sown into every one of my shirts, besides my own. In a whisper of a drawer, a thread got caught, slowly unwravelling your name. It was a mystery to me, not so much to you; no thread poked out of the drawer to warn me of the change.

Now I look at your face as you laugh at another’s. An image so familiar it’s warped into my blood. A smile tugs at my mouth. Smile lines forming as I stare at a familiar warmth. Smile lines forming as I stand ten metres away. Smile lines leaving as you smile at another.

You were me, back when we would run through foliage, taking pictures on the stub of a tree; a memory rooted into my bones.

You were me, as we stood back-to-back, smiles plastered on our faces seven years apart.

You were me, when I pulled back in disbelief that my arms held you, my hands felt you.

You are me now, as you pull the thread looser and looser.

But don’t you know it’s futile?

The places in which your name were sown remain holed. And if I trace each pin prick it spells out my name.