The Sinclair Island

I never think of you.

I truly never do.

I never do until I reach the shores, until my body gets covered in salt,

until I swim down in the blue waters and reach the base of the Sinclair island.

Until I’m back to the place I dare to call home, a place that became a little bit more home with you in it.

And you still live here, in every treasured place that we mapped and cherished, for they remember you – and so do I, your dark blonde hair that you dyed brown when you turned nineteen, and your youthful scream as you emerged from the waters and the bell tower rings midnight. We’re alone in the world and you take me in your arms, “remember this moment forever, remember me”.

The dearest memories are the most harmful.

Yet, I don’t miss you. A writer writes for many reasons, and I don’t think it’s ever just about missing the person – it’s passed that stage, it’s beyond, it’s about contemplation.

You were sugar, curiosity, and rain. I think we loved each other a little bit more than friends normally do. And we loved each other even more every summer, on the Sinclair island, sketching for hours the school year to come with the passion and thoroughness we would give to a painting – colourful, rich, indestructible – holy, even. And just like that, we would heal about everything.

Two comets that you would fear to argue with. Two girls that wouldn’t put on their grown-up costume to please you, for they weren’t ones, they were kids with big big plans and big big hearts and big big sorrows and big big dreams – and who wants to mess with that.

We grew up here every summer. We found ourselves here every summer. We met boys we loved for a night and sent away with the rise of the sun. And we would always, always come back at dawn to the small beach behind the high and sharp black rocks, drinking wine and seeing every sunrise and sundown. Owning the Sinclair island. Our island – a secret world we didn’t need to show, didn’t need to prove, didn’t need to impress anyone with, for they wouldn’t have understood, and it belonged to us.

I never think of you.

I truly never do.

But here I always do.


Maëlle Leggiadro


Photo courtesy of Ben White

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