Driftwood burns to cool embers. We flee to our tents to couple, or sleep it off.
Night shifts, heavy indigo to thin green, cool breeze shredding night to red dawn.
She slips off her shoes, shucks off sweatshirt and jeans, no zip cracks the morning silence. Wasted thin by her disease, she steps into the water to die on her own terms. She did that.
That part I want to remember.
© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2018)
Carrot Ranch Rodeo 2018: category—memoir, prompt—She did it.