For the sea is a vast, churning thing that crushes sea shells into sand. My parents ashes have been flung into its relentless froth. Mine may also find their way to its brutal edge.
Always, the sea has coughed back the cares I bring to the beach with my towel, sandwiches and dogs. Its heaving, shuddering mass does not care for the little trials of man. It has seen them all again and again and again. The sea is an unsympathetic bastard. That’s why I keep coming back to it. I understand.
The sea licks clean the wounds of living. That is also why I return. Scudding, soothing, consistently chaffing rough stuff smooth
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