The Long Way Home

Tiny Motels Swallowed By Sky

I thought the Atlantic would be a good place to scatter some of my mother’s ashes because she felt the most freedom in her life when she was swimming. But when Jeff and I reached the end of the pier, we realized we were standing over sand, not water. Two women sat on a bench behind us complaining about their children. This wasn’t the right place, not this time. I remembered the morning before we left Pittsburgh, how carefully Jeff had packed her into the pocket of my camera bag; I wanted to crush him to me. This year has been so long and painful – so difficult, at times, it doesn’t feel real when I keep going. I don’t know how I would have managed without his bravery and love.

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