Galaxies and Oceans

When you look at the stars, what do you see?” “Impossible possibilities.

Some days it was bearable; some days it burned. 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.

No. Not a word. But sometimes you have to listen to the silences. When things aren’t said. That’s where the truth is.

I wasn't prepared to feel anything again. I wasn't supposed to. When hearts are broken so utterly beyond repair, they're not supposed to beat again, right?

Can you hear that?” I asked quietly, looking to Patrick before searching the stars again with the telescope. “How the ocean and the wind speak to the lighthouse. It’s like a quiet symphony; an ode to the stars,

I like the consistency of the stars. They never fail, regardless of the rotations of the earth. It's fascinating to me that each star holds the possibilities of other worlds. Space is just so vast and dense, it makes everything else seem insignificant.

There was an ocean of warmth in him, of protection and safety, that shone like a lighthouse beacon.

His eyes were dark fire, galaxies all on their own.

It's not the ocean that bends and breaks. You think those rocks down there are unmovable and a solid force because the water crashes around them, but it's the opposite. The ocean shapes them and breaks them down. It moves them, not the other way around. The ocean is a constant force of energy. It yields for nothing.

I blinked back happy tears, my heart completely full. “May the stars forever guide us, and may this lighthouse bring us home.

As it’s written in the galaxies and oceans, I promise my heart to you,

But sometimes you have to listen to the silences. When things aren’t said. That’s where the truth is.

and his lips when he smiled. He was watchful, cautious, and I knew he had a story to tell, but I didn’t want to push him. Stories were better told over time, anyway, when allowed to unfold only when they were ready to be written.

Patrick soon stood beside me. He was taller than me by a few inches, but bigger and broader by a mile, though not in an intimidating way. It was more of a pillar of strength kind of way.

I was certain he had a story to tell. And that was the problem. Everyone had a story to tell, myself included. And if I let myself get too close to anyone, they were bound to ask questions I couldn’t ever answer.

I can see why you love him. Those two words stopped me. I did still love him, but it was in the past. I didn’t want to say I loved him in past tense, because that sounded like it was over and forgotten. And it wasn’t. He wasn’t forgotten. He never would be. But it wasn’t love like it was when he was alive. It hadn’t lessened any, it just became something else. It was a permanent part of my life. Like a background hum, a comforting presence that helped me get through dark times. It was still there, and I didn’t want it to disappear; I wanted that hum, that white noise that comforted me. But there was no thrill, no excitement in my love for Scott. It was different to what I might be feeling for Aubrey. To what I was feeling for Aubrey. Aubrey was present tense. He was here and alive

Forever?” “Until the stars are no more.

How the ocean and the wind speak to the lighthouse. It’s like a quiet symphony; an ode to the stars,

Kind of like I’m lost at sea and you’re the lighthouse and safe harbour. I know when I’m with you, no one can hurt me.

I’d woken up this morning with a peaceful feeling, as though a section of navigation charts had simply fallen into place, and now I knew where I was going.

Trust the waters, Patrick. The ocean was mapped out from the stars.

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.

Tabby the cat, my resident master and mouse catcher, watched me with judgement in her eyes from her spot in front of the fire. “It’s not a date,” I told her. She stared at me in the superior way cats did.