Agatha had hidden in her father’s I house for weeks after his death. Her life had become a series of breathes. In, out, each a slight respite from pain, the kind of pain that slices your chest open as you contemplate if it could ever put it back together again. Agatha had never lived with that kind of pain. It was so heavy.She never thought that she could put it down.
She had never cried when he died. She had just retreated into the safety of her parents’ home, into the safety of her childhood bed. But nothing could shelter her from the knowing that she would never hold her husband again.
When she finally stepped outside, she did it quietly. Without anyone’s notice or permission, she left her childhood home. And, she walked. She found herself on the shore near her beloved sea which her whole life had been her solace. It was early morning and the thin red lines of the morning sun pulled away from the yellowing sky. The endless blue, the sound of the sea birds, the salt smell, the crash of the white waves. It was all so beautiful.
“There must be a G-d,” thought Agatha because man could not create something so perfect. Agatha watched the sun rise and the day begin. And, she felt as if it was so beautiful that she could collapse into the sea.