It was by all accounts idyllic.
A beautiful day for the beach, really. The sky was bright blue after a week of heavy clouds and drenching afternoon downpours. Low tide had provided a wide expanse of sand with warm tidepools that edged the sandbars just before the shore breaks.
My two high school boys, backs turned to the sun on their towels, had fallen asleep after an early deep-sea fishing trip and I sat in the shade of a large umbrella, alternating between keeping tabs on my younger two in the water and the book I’d downloaded to my phone.
Glancing up, I watched my youngest son carry a surf board up from the water. His dad’s surfboard. How many days had I watched his dad walking up this same beach, carrying that same board after a long surf session?
I lingered over this long-legged boy coming up the beach. He’ll be 13 next month. A coming of age without his dad.
Familiar regret colored my thoughts. His dad should have been here. He should have been here to teach him how to surf, to give pointers on throwing the perfect cast net, to help him get from boy to man.
This is not the good life I wanted for you, my heart grieved.
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