Free Shining Sea by Mimi Cross

of the jetty.

ECHO
    Dr. Harrison joked once that all musicians have OCD tendencies. Ha-ha.
    Bo. What is he?
    During dinner with Dad, and later, while I’m doing homework, that question—and a million others about Bo—slices through my thoughts like a swimmer’s strokes through water, again and again.
    Listening to the new song I’d managed to download before the nearly nonexistent Internet connection dropped, I write to Mom, telling her I’ve met the most beautiful boy—then hit “Delete.” After starting over and writing about school, I hesitate. But Dad wouldn’t have told Mom about my fall; he’s smarter than that. Closing the note with x ’s and o ’s for Lilah, I shut down the computer. The email will have to go tomorrow, from the library.
    But thoughts of Mom won’t go so easily, even though, in a way, she herself has been gone longer than Lilah has. And I’ll probably never know why. She’d blame it on her art.
    Tonight, I wish I could talk to her, about Bo, about my walk. But she hardly ever picks up her phone, and even if she did, we wouldn’t really talk . We’d just exchange trivia.
    After getting out my guitar, I open a notebook filled with lyrics and bad poems, and turn to a blank page. I pick up a pen, then put it down. Straighten a stack of paperbacks. Line up a handful of guitar picks. Focusing on small things can save you. I learned that even before Lilah’s accident. Learned to focus on the small things. When you look at something small for a long time—it opens. Then you can see a long ways.
    Usually when I’m looking at that long view, I see words, find songs, and something’s clarified. But sometimes, I just see the past. I see Mom. Loving me. But I can’t feel it. It’s like having a photo of something but not the thing itself.
    As if the love she gives me now is an echo, and the original sound is gone.
    Mom used to joke, “I loved you until you started talking back . ” But I hadn’t talked back, Lilah had, and Mom still loves her more. Why do adults joke about things that aren’t funny?
    Playing around with a bunch of different chords, I settle on a minor one, of course. Next, my fingers land on the strings and form another chord, but not one I recognize. The combination of notes is—different. Dissonant. Don’t think. Just play.
    “To tell the truth,” I whisper sing, “I’m not okay.”
    “Thank you for asking, and now will you stay? Or smile politely and just walk away.”
    I have no idea where this is going, but the next verse comes out as if it’s already written.
    “To tell the truth, I’m sure I look fine. You can’t see what’s hidden with the naked eye, it’s like trying to find something blue in the sky.”
    My voice shoots into my upper register—
    “Gently—pick me up carefully . . .
    Gently—hold me. Rock me . . .
    Gently like she—used to do.”
    Scrambling to write the words down, the bridge bursts from the center of my body and up through my throat. I can almost hear the drums: a broken roll on the snare, a hesitant kick on a bass drum that just makes it to the downbeat on time. An ascending bass line that sends the next section soaring— Tears start rolling down my cheeks, but I must be feeling better, because depression is debilitating. You can’t write a song if you’re wasting away. You wouldn’t want to. Grief, that’s fuel, but the “depressed artist” thing? It’s a myth.
    “Myth!” I shout. Then I shout it again, listening carefully—although not, I realize with a start, for an echo, but—for an answer.
    Don’t know why I’m surprised when none comes.

SUNSET
    “Ready for this?” Mary asks. Of course, she’s the first one here.
    “Not really.” I stroke one of the hot-pink petals on the one last flower that clings to a Rugosa rosebush at the back of the lighthouse. Late-afternoon light edges the petal with gold.
    “Don’t worry. I told you. You won’t have to do anything. The guys will dig the fire pit,