The mist lingered on top of the water for 15 minutes longer today.
He took another sip of coffee and rocked slowly in his chair on the front deck of the cottage they once coined their poets nest.
He thinks back to a time when they would comb the shoreline every Friday for debris released from the grip of the tides. He remembers this one day when she found a large black feather, a raven’s feather; it was weather-beaten but she thought she had found gold. He remembers so clearly taking it from her soft hands and weaving it in the locks of her long dark hair.
“You’re my Pocahontas,” he said. As soon as the words escaped his mouth she started running. She ran and ran until she reached the end of the beach. He followed her, as he always did, and they sat dipping their toes in the ocean and talking about the future.
“You’ll always put feathers in my hair, won’t you darling? And paint my funny looking toes, and read me your beautiful words?”
“Yes,” he replied, “For you I bare my soul, just as surely as the ocean reaches yours.”
He remembers that long, bittersweet kiss they shared in that moment.
He looks around him and remembers the nights they lay underneath the scratchy plaid blanket, just over there beneath the picture window, searching for Ursa Minor in the sky.
He takes another sip of coffee.
He clutches the raven’s feather tightly in his hand.
“The mist lingered on top of the water for 15 minutes longer today my love,” he whispered, “I hope that you can feel it.”