Friday, 11 August 2006

Retuned to the sea.

This is goodbye, for a little while.

I'm jumping on an airplane in hours with my family, scared to death in light of recent news stories, disappointed in my fellow man for wanting to inflict such a level of hurt on other human beings but still high on life, high on love and with that tangible faith that I sought so awkwardly before, now worn from the inside out.

By me, little me, so cynical when all this started, now so sure of herself. At least for today.

First order of business is simply to get there. Home to Nova Scotia. Suddenly not home anymore after all. After all, I have everything I need right here. Well, almost.

There at first I will sleep some. Not much. I will be surrounded and accosted by family and friends I haven't really spent time with in over four years. I will carry Cole's ashes on the plane. They will be buried at sea. Not scattered at sea, buried. Dropped in a very heavy box very far from shore.

I will leave him behind. Forever.

Afterwards we'll have many days of playing on the beach, in the water and a few very out of the way trips in between, to PEI and to Newfoundland too. So the kids can get to know their new grandparents and their new auntie. So we can have a sort of honeymoon.

Happiness. True happiness in the best place in the world. The edge of my favorite ocean.

I might be different when I come back. Well, I certainly hope I will be. There couldn't be a better form of closure than to drop that goddamned box in the sea. That moment will signify the new beginnings for me, something I need. Something Jacob needs to have so badly, to bear witness to my closing of a door that I left open far too long. We're locking it and throwing away the key.

And then we can begin.

We're not taking much with us, also symbolic. No computers, no journals. No phones. No interruptions from life to encroach on our honeymoon and take away the magic. No writing to cause discord or create a temporary salve. Pure unadulterated freedom from the daily routines we have created to sustain us through the hardest days thus far.

No. None of that. This will involve waking up in rooms I have seen so many times before. White painted woodwork and threadbare quilts, a sandswept boardwalk that leads between the dunes and opens into the most breathtaking expanse of beautiful sand meeting sea meeting sky that I can't ever describe adequately enough to explain my love for.

I'm about to have my heart broken all over again when I see that wonderful place.

And then we can begin.

See you in two weeks.