Age is said to deteriorate the memory, but mine is clearer now that it ever was before. The memories flood my brain like the waves sweeping away the sand on my beautiful little beach. Each memory ends in sadness. I don't remember words as much as I remember images. They haunt me, ghosts of the men they are images of.

I remember the slightly scatterbrained, wigged politician who smiled at me in a way that conveyed both love and a slight disapproval as he kissed my cheek. I remember how the last I saw of him, he was sitting in a boat surrounded by other spirits like himself.

I remember blue eyes, with yellowed whites. I remember a skeletal hand reaching towards me in the moonlight. I remember the shock on his face as the bullet plunged into his heart just as the curse broke. I remember his black boots when he came down the steps back into my life. I remember the way he looked at me when he was felled by a stray bullet.

I remember a scarred face and jagged nails that scratched my face as an Asian mouth was pressed violently to mine. I remember the anger in his dark eyes as he turned to me, the shock as he was impaled by a jagged plank. I remember the look of one begging for repentance.

I remember a white wigged navy officer who kissed me in a sad way as he prepared to meet his death. I remember the love in his eyes. Sad, hopeless love. I remember seeing him slump to the deck with a sword impaling him.

I remember light brown eyes nearing mine as a soft mouth pressed to mine. I remember the love glowing from puppy-like orbs. I remember the agony on his face as the blade twisted in his heart and he faded too fast for anyone to do anything. I remember his paleness in death, so young and cold.

Most of all, I remember dark chocolate eyes, black with lust as a rough, rum flavored mouth pressed against mine. I remember the understanding growing as he pulled back. I remember long lashes shading kohl-rimmed eyes. I remember a beautiful gold-toothed smirk, as he bid me goodbye in his own strange way. I remember the distress on his face when he saw me again, an odd mixture of fear and surprise and desire. I remember the pride on his face when I rallied the pirates to fight. I remember the sadness on his face as we watched my husband die. I remember the love and lust mixed in his eyes when we were married, and later that night when we made our love real, hot caresses mixed with gentle interludes of soft touches and kisses. I remember the tears he let run unabashedly down his face when he left, knowing we would not meet again for a decade. I remember the day I found out he wasn't coming back, the day I found out about the man who had killed him. I had told him so many times not to take the chest and the key. But he kept saying he didn't want to put me in danger if someone wanted to kill him. He was goneā€¦his beautiful chocolate eyes would never again darken with want for me, his hands never touch my body, his husky voice never again whisper love for me.

I remember the bittersweet joy of the day I realized our one night of pleasure had left me with child. I remember the fuzzy dark head of the babe with the chocolate eyes I remembered so well. It is the only memory that does not break some little piece of my heart. My memories of little Jackie are sad only in that he has moved to Port Royal, far from me, to live a proper life, married to a proper young lady, such as I once was. Jackie will never know the truth, that his mother was once the Pirate Lord of Singapore, the King of the Brethren Court. Jackie will never know that his father was the legendary Jack Sparrow, Captain of The Flying Dutchman. I chose not to tell him that the legends of the golden age of piracy are true. I want him to live a normal life. And I will sit here on this beach and mourn my friends and loves who have died. I will mourn the Governor, the mutineer, the Asian, the Admiral, the blacksmith, and most of all, I will mourn the captain of my heart, who long ago preceded me to the after world. And I will long for the day I join him.