It is dark and windy and cold. The rain lashes down against my face and the waves bounce over my knees and splash over my waist. I face the sea, cigarette in one hand, half bottle of wine in the other. Both dangle in the wash, my hands numbed as each wave passes.
Gran passed away a couple of days ago. I didn't know. I just spoke to Dad, he told me. I remember times at the beach in Portsmouth, a tiered beach of large pebbles and model villages. And a weekend I spent with her, when she explained the holy ghost to me and how all that fitted in. We talk over the wind.
As fresh water runs to salt, mother nature continues to lap at my knees. I am one half of my father and I feel more for him than anyone else on the planet. I wish I was with him.