The Tide At The Door

In my drawing, I gave Finn what I never gave him out loud. The words I'd said wrong when I had the chance. I told him, with windows and firelight, what I couldn't say to his face:

I did love you. I'm sorry I said otherwise. I just didn't know what to do with it.

The light stayed on all night.

Morning.

Sunlight spilled across the porch.

I stepped outside with a coffee.

The blanket was there. Folded neatly, edges stiff from the sea air that always found its way in.

And on top of it — glinting like something washed ashore — sat my lost earring.

I didn’t touch it at first. Just stood there, somewhere between disbelief, horror and wonder. My hands trembling, the smell of salt in the air, the world holding its breath again.Grief, gratitude, fear — all of it tangled in the same tide.

I whispered through tears, “Thank you.”

Finn had always been the fixer.

And even now apparently he still was.

Like the sea gives back what it knows you’re finally ready to receive.