I took a walk out to my little gray cove this morning. It was misting and the fog still hung low out past the rocks. I could hear the foghorn moaning in the distance and the smell of salt water was especially strong in the early dampness. The isolated beauty of this remote place never ceases to amaze me. I ask my mother if she sees the wonder of this rocky beach? Does she hear the cries of the gulls and the foghorn’s lonely warning to passing boats. Can she smell the salty dampness in the air? I can’t hear my mother’s answers, I can only imagine them. I wonder if particles of her ashes still remain in the cove, or did the outgoing tides carrying them all away? I ask the incoming tides to bring some of her back.
