Our ocean angrily spat out a tsunami of tragedy towards the shore this week.
Given enough time, I can usually prepare for these foamy waves. Bracing myself for the darkness and the salty taste and battening down the hatches, I raise the alarms through social sirens. My loved ones know that we are in for rough weather.
After the initial shock, the cold, unforgiving water recedes and leaves tiny, glistening bubbles of grief on the sand.
These fragile globes are what remains, holding memories and unrealized possibilities within.
They pop without warning. They leave us breathless.
My beach is filled with them.
To angrily stamp on them does nothing. More watery spheres form and burst.
So I let them be, sitting quietly, waiting for the calmer waves to wash over them.
The pull of the moon will sweep the grief back out to sea, etching lines into the undertow.
But not today.