A broken heart
It's a cloudy, heavy, damp Maine day.
I took an afternoon walk to watch my son and friends surf the waves at the beach. Walking home in flip flops, I stopped and sat on the sea wall. I looked out at the cloudy sky and grey ocean. I listened to the rocks tumble back and forth in unison as the waves lulled them in and out with the rocking surf. It is such a beautiful sound.
My late father is not here to enjoy this, I thought to myself. And he hasn't been here for over 20 years. I picked up a rock. I picked up four more.
They were all hearts.
One had a break along the middle - a broken heart. My father would not me to keep a broken heart in his memory. Using the baseball throw he once taught me as a young girl, I threw it back into the ocean.