We walked the beach barefoot and took proper photographs of each other. Nancy sat in the sand and built a crooked sandcastle while laughing like a child.
Sherry waded into the ocean on the third day and came up sputtering. “I am not afraid of anything anymore!” she shouted.
Every night after supper, we lit a candle beside Arthur’s photograph. Each woman said one thing she wished someone had told her when she was younger.
Nancy said, “You are allowed to stop giving.”
Alice said, “The right person won’t make you feel small.”
Grace said, “You do not have to be strong all the time.”
Carolyn said, “Silence is not peace.”
Sherry said, “Grief doesn’t mean your life is over.”
When it came to me, I looked at Arthur’s face and said, “You were never a burden. You were the reason.”
On the last night, we walked down to the shore. The moon silvers the water and the tide came up around our ankles.
Nobody said the moment was sacred. Nobody had to.
When I got home three weeks later, an email from Bridget was waiting.
“Mom, I know things have been difficult,” it began. She talked about the Fourth of July and how Paul’s parents had to get a hotel.
She called it practical. Then came the point.