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Grief was like the great Southern Ocean; it moved in ebbs and flows, often turbulent and rough, or peaceful and settled, and even over time when I could navigate the waters, the tide never stopped.
Stories were better told over time, anyway, when allowed to unfold only when they were ready to be written.
The ocean was calmer tonight, there were no angry undertones, and it was times like this that I could imagine it wasn’t a force to be reckoned with, that it was a peaceful beast, gentle, providing refuge for all that lived in it. Some days it beat like a heart, the earth’s pulse, giving life to all things. Some days it took life.
There was a reason for the adage to never turn your back on the ocean. It was an unforgiving beast. I preferred when it was rough and choppy, grey and cold, because it was easier to remember what it was capable of.
Patrick could talk about stormy oceans and fishing boats all day long, but it pained him to do it. There was a rip in his waters, an undertow that belied the calm surface.
It was as though he was the personification of this coast, this ocean. He was browns, blues, and greys, just like the scenery behind him, with a spark of life in his eyes but a sadness too. A little worn, rugged, weathered, but beautiful all the same.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said to him. I could almost hear him laugh and say, “You’re navigating uncharted waters, Patrick.” I blinked back tears. “I don’t know how,” I replied. And the answer was as clear as a bell. By following the stars.
Trust the waters, Patrick. The ocean was mapped out from the stars.
But sometimes you have to listen to the silences. When things aren’t said. That’s where the truth is.”
No one asked him to, he just saw that it needed doing, so he did it. I liked that. It showed character and ethics, that underneath the mystery that was Aubrey Hobbs, he was a good person. He did a good deed not expecting anything in return.