conch shell conversations
Memories imprinted in the sand.
Kassy, me, and Sabrina in 2009
From the years of 2008 to 2012, my family had a condo on Hallandale beach. We spent nearly every weekend there under the sun, building structures in the sand. My favorite pastime was shaking the seaweed surfing on the waves to watch the shrimps, fish, and occasional crabs frantically swim to a new patch of shelter. I often caught these sea creatures in buckets to observe them more clearly on the familiar, unmoving ground provided by the sandy shore. Several family friends would visit. The most frequent visitors were my chosen sister/best friend Kassy and her family.
Kassy and I met at the age of seven in our second grade class. We quickly became obsessed with each other, causing trouble in class and spending multiple afternoons a week at each other's houses. Our younger brothers happen to be the same age and soon, they had a friendship of their own. It wasn’t long before both of our parents became the best of friends as well. And so it began, my five person family was growing. My other best friend Ana and her parents joined our shot, creating the perfect family portrait to hang in the hall of every major holiday. Birthdays, Christmas, Halloween, New Years, and the regular weekends were spent with each other, no matter what.
When we weren’t at Kassy’s house, we were at my family’s condo. From sunrise to sunset, we lived in our bathing suits, stuffing ourselves with fresh fruits and potato chips in between mermaid roleplay games. Sandy, Kassy’s mom who became a second mom to me early on in our friendship, would huddle up with all of us children in the ocean while my mom prepared lunch inside. We all sat on our floaties enthralled by Sandy’s retelling of ghost stories from her adolescent home. Every weekend, all six children would beg Sandy to share the
stories again, regardless of the fact that we had them all memorized. To this day, I can recount extensive details of each story.
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From left to right: Me, Kassy, Ana, and Sabrina at a birthday party in 2008.
Once the evening arrived we would gather by the grill, as usual, as my dad cooked carne asada for us all. Kassy and I were deep in our Justin Bieber phase at the time and would persistently beg our parents to give us control over the music; it was a hopeless request. Instead, we’d resort to singing and dancing the songs on the other side of the pool, far enough from the grill to not disturb our family’s peace.
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Most of my time growing up in South Florida revolved around my familial bond with Kassy and her family. Especially since we met at the age of seven, I cannot recall a time when we weren’t together. The bulk of my childhood and adolescence were spent with Kassy and her family, as well as Ana and hers. We truly became sisters who could not spend more than one day apart from one another.
As per tradition, we rang in the 2020 New Year together, nonstop giggling and embracing each other after living in separate states for the first time ever. After moving to Ann Arbor, this was the first time we were forced to spend months apart, our souls still connected by an invisible, unbreakable string. There was not a moment that night where we weren’t smiling or holding each other in some way.
Ten days into the new year, I awoke to dozens of missed calls and text messages from Ana in a panic. I quickly called her back, starting the longest, most haunting phone call of my life.
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I can still hear Ana’s shaky voice thousands of miles away through the phone, the five words burning permanent holes through my chest.
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“Kassy passed away last night.”
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Again, and again, and again, and again, and again, stuck on repeat stinging every last nerve in my body.
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Our Kassy was gone.
Kassy and I entering the 2020 new year.
Only two weeks after her 20th birthday and one week after I had seen her for the last time.
I spent the next months flying back and forth between Ann Arbor and Weston, Florida, unable to deal with the unexpected loss on my own. Looking back, all I see is me rotting in bed in a green haze with swollen eyes, an empty stomach, and nothing at all filling the space between my ears.
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Spending the five month COVID-19 quarantine period in my family home in Weston, Florida was a conflicting experience. January 9th still felt so fresh; the grief of sudden death weighing me down never felt so heavy. Every street in my suburb had her name, every corner another memory. Despite craving the comfort of home during the most challenging period of my life, I was suffocating in the remembrance of the way things used to be; the way things could never be again.
Kassy, Ana and I before the 8th grade dance in 2014.
The ocean’s company assisted in replenishing my soul. I made an effort to visit it as often as I could, acknowledging that it was the only local place that both reminded me of her while bringing me peace. The ocean breeze carries Kassy’s laughter across the shore, I see her eyes in the light reflecting off the waves, and the sand grounds my feet as I feel her all around me. Every sunset on the water paints a new layer of healing over the canvas I’ve splattered with my pain. Every moon rise desperately attempts to lift the pit in my stomach to the exit my mouth provides, reducing the weight of a thousand griefs condensed in my gut.
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South Florida may be a sanctuary, but it’s shield is faulty. It comforts me by appealing to my nostalgia and childhood. Yet, it reminds me of all I lost. It reminds me of Kassy, and how I will never again get to hold her in this life.
Without the routine of living by her side, what am I supposed to do?
And I realize why my relationship with South Florida feels so twisted and burdensome: I was born and raised here. My entire life has stuck to a routine like clockwork. All of my years of school were spent with Kassy and Ana, our families practically obsessed with each other. I never considered a life where we would have to be apart.
But now, I’ve been forced to create new routines, a new reality in a place with a now tarnished history of stability.
Despite it all, the ocean moves the same.