Nokomis, Florida
Latitude 27º 7 N
October 13, 2011
Nokomis. Just the word is beautiful—in sound and in memory.
Nokomis. Eight miles south of Sarasota and two miles north of Venice.
Nokomis: One of the prettiest beaches on the Gulf Coast.
For all the years my parents live in Sarasota during their retirement years, there’d come a day during my April break when my Dad and I would plan a sunset on the beach in that small, delightful Florida beach town.
And so it was that, an hour before sunset, on a wonderful early October day, I made my way back to the beach where I’d already spent the better part of the day. The sky was perfect for a dynamic sunset—patches of clouds well above the horizon, but cloud-free where sea and sky met.
I sat on the beach where my Dad and I sat during those April nights more than twenty years ago. And while I didn’t actually feel his presence like I do my mother’s, he was very much with me. He, like I, loved the water—sea, lake and river—and sand, and shoreline and sunsets at the end of a glorious Florida’s spring day. For my Dad, this state, I think, was his peninsular Eden, but I’ll never actually know. There are many things we never talked about, and this is one of them.
He was with me tonight and I imagined him sitting next to me. We’d comment about the setting sun, or the striation of the clouds or we’d pick seashells and pocket a few. I was happy. His death, almost seventeen years ago, no longer elicits the sadness it once did.
And so together, he in spirit and I in flesh, we watched the sun slip through the cloud bank, its rays slanting in all directions. It hovered for a short minute on the sea, and then, orange and hot, dropped into the sea.
I lingered for a bit until well after sunset. The sky had turned a muted black. I picked up my things, turned around and, rising in the east, was an almost full moon. What a marvel: full moon and setting sun. The day could not have ended any better.
Death doesn’t always end a relationship.
Latitude 27º 7 N
October 13, 2011
Nokomis. Just the word is beautiful—in sound and in memory.
Nokomis. Eight miles south of Sarasota and two miles north of Venice.
Nokomis: One of the prettiest beaches on the Gulf Coast.
For all the years my parents live in Sarasota during their retirement years, there’d come a day during my April break when my Dad and I would plan a sunset on the beach in that small, delightful Florida beach town.
And so it was that, an hour before sunset, on a wonderful early October day, I made my way back to the beach where I’d already spent the better part of the day. The sky was perfect for a dynamic sunset—patches of clouds well above the horizon, but cloud-free where sea and sky met.
I sat on the beach where my Dad and I sat during those April nights more than twenty years ago. And while I didn’t actually feel his presence like I do my mother’s, he was very much with me. He, like I, loved the water—sea, lake and river—and sand, and shoreline and sunsets at the end of a glorious Florida’s spring day. For my Dad, this state, I think, was his peninsular Eden, but I’ll never actually know. There are many things we never talked about, and this is one of them.
He was with me tonight and I imagined him sitting next to me. We’d comment about the setting sun, or the striation of the clouds or we’d pick seashells and pocket a few. I was happy. His death, almost seventeen years ago, no longer elicits the sadness it once did.
And so together, he in spirit and I in flesh, we watched the sun slip through the cloud bank, its rays slanting in all directions. It hovered for a short minute on the sea, and then, orange and hot, dropped into the sea.
I lingered for a bit until well after sunset. The sky had turned a muted black. I picked up my things, turned around and, rising in the east, was an almost full moon. What a marvel: full moon and setting sun. The day could not have ended any better.
Death doesn’t always end a relationship.
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