It was by all accounts an idyllic day.
The sky arching over the ocean was clear cerulean blue after a week of heavy clouds and drenching afternoon downpours. Low tide provided a wide expanse of sand with warm pools edging the sandbars which stalled the tumbling shore breaks.
My two high school boys, backs turned to the sun, had fallen asleep on their towels after a morning deep-sea fishing and I sat in the shade of a large umbrella, alternately keeping tabs on the younger two in the water and the book 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 move from boy to man.
This is not the good life I wanted for you, my heart grieved.