I just can’t quite see it. And I don’t think it’s only the myth of my eyes. I think it’s the truth of my reality. All I can see standing here at this shore looks a whole lot like a whole lot of nothing. Nothing…

The woman held me. Her arms reached and wrapped like a mother welcoming her son back home. Hands squeezing, sliding and swishing back and forth like windshield wipers across my back. Words falling out of her mouth with tenderness and warmth, seeping into my spirit…

Abe’s always loved older movies. Chitty Chitty. Mary Poppins. Wizard of Oz. But one played the longest right when we moved. Wore it out. Something about the adventure rang true for us. And these two ships — theirs and ours — seemed to have crashed at similar ports. Here…

I couldn’t hear him anymore. He’d been flying up and down the driveway on his bike, playing-cards rattling in the spokes, rolling in a raucous riot like some sort of rebel rider. And now all was quiet.

We took them to the beach back in November of 2013. The twins were a year-and-change. Abe coming up on four. It was a hidden gem of a spot in Florida. But by the time our cross-country drive ended, it was dark. Like can’t-quite-see-the-ocean dark.