I’m still obsessed with her. Have been since I first heard her name and saw her face. I often wonder where she is but I suppose, really, I know already.
Her way was so smart, so determined, a very clever commitment. Feeling that cold would’ve made all the badness that she felt disappear, totally, and so quickly.
Her way explains to the lucky ones
how much pain she was in
and leaves no question
about her intentions
(+ the note)
She could’ve turned back at any point but she didn’t.
It’s difficult to purposely drown:
the sea spits you right back out.
She chose to immerse herself in a brutal, natural, but lesser pain.
The sea hurt less than depression.
I’m strangely proud of her.
Walking into the freezing, unforgiving North Sea,
three hours after having spent Christmas Day with your family,
being swallowed and not even spat out or washed up?
Ballsy. Impressive. Tragic.
Could I do it? I honestly don’t think so.
Of course I am sad
that her family have nothing to bury
and will spend the rest of their lives
missing her and waiting for her
to walk through the door.
I am sad that she felt that she had nobody.
I hope she got on a boat and escaped to somewhere sunny.
I hope wherever she is, she is happy.
And I still think about her often, though there’s no news
and I doubt there ever will be.
Her name and her pain and her photo can’t be forgotten,
not by her family and not by me.
Sophie, poor Sweet Sophie,
for whom the sea
hurt less than anxiety.