Stranded

This is going to be my last letter. Do you remember laughing when people said they got wet? I remember what it was like when someone wore high-heels, or spilled a beer; when there was music and cigarette smoke. The bad times weren't like this either. I remember when a dog got scared and it pissed and no one knew what to do and there was a little pool of piss and they couldn't ignore it. I remember when there was rain and lightening; and when a boy stared over the edge and practiced spitting, looking for fish to follow. I remember staying out at night and not getting cold and never being still. Do you ever remember being still? I remember that being touched was just as good as touching. But I don't remember it hurting; or only coming from the underneath. I don't remember having an underneath. I don't remember you ever telling me how it would feel to have people look underneath. I do remember when the weight shifted. I remember when they were lying down and when they weren't; when it was happy, and when it wasn't. You never told me what to do when the weight doesn't shift, or when there isn't any weight left. I can't remember what I'm supposed to do when it gets this dry.