I used to hate the beach. I had gone down all my childhood to the burning sands and chilling water with my siblings and parents; so when my dad started to stay behind, it didn’t feel right. And being the child I was, I began to point fingers, blame the beach. “The water is too cold” or “nobody wants to go play in the ocean” or “it’s boring.” I spewed every excuse possible to get away from the place where we all loved each other. But if I dwell on the fact that it’ll never happen again, the indescribable feeling you only achieve with people you love can never be reached on any grain of sand. I accepted that it happened, and moved on.

So, tell me all your woes about how a time you were loved by another is an embarrassing or bruising memory to bear? A time in which love was the air you breathed now makes your nose wrinkle at the scent? Someone must’ve told you it was wrong, that it was weird and out of place in the natural order of things. But they are wrong. There is no harm in loving someone.

In each memory I have, where I’m surrounded by those I’ve given a piece of me to, laughing and smiling as the shadows cower to the sounds, what more can I do but be grateful that I experienced such delightfulness. That my presence is not one of a burden, a fault, but intentionally placed so I can spread or be spread with a joy not made on its own. I don’t think there’s anything better than to know you’ve earned the love of another after giving them a sense of ease.

You learn you hold the love of someone else in a plethora of circumstances; it is not tethered to simple joy such as physical expressions. Sometimes you realize it as you writhe in bed from a terrible sight in your slumber, only to have loving hands rub up and down your spine as reassurances are whispered into the crown of your hair. Other times you are in rather a state of despair and agony, yet they flock to you as if the world will splinter down its center lest you be comforted.

Though not every past can be as enjoyable as the one that’s been exampled. They can be filled with barbed wires that stitch themselves in your skin or run down your face. When you awake from your nightmare there might be no hands or words to soothe the ache of your conjured imagination, or when you’re choking on your words in your throat no one rushes to you. But there is an infinite list of devotion, each driven down their own path, but regardless of their faces they exist. 

I am not saying you must love those who have given you gleeful memories only to run a dagger down your back, leaving you to bandage a wound you cannot see. Some do not deserve the things they’ve been given, love being counted among them. But do not let the anger and hatred for an individual turn a sweet moment sour and bitter, for it does not hurt their memory, only yours.

So, when you rot into the ground, your possessions and notions will be carried onto the people you hold highest. The things you have created will be displayed on their shelves and tables, and frames will hold your immortal face on display. And yet, despite all the physical reminders you have laid in front of them, the image of you in their minds will spring tears to their eyes, proving that there is no better gift than a lover.