
The mother of the murdered child has been standing ankle-high in the sea for the last twenty minutes. I recall the summer two years before when the murdered child was on this very terrace with her murdering husband: sun-kissed and lost in love — whispering, dabbing disinterest at their food, dreaming of tomorrows.
I come to this same taverna every summer: the same metronomic beat of cicadas, the same surprise when an unexpected gust of wind makes kites of sunhats, prises unripe olives from their branch, topples toddlers in the sea. I stay late sometimes, watch the sky change from blue to red to black, wait for the fluttering stars, a remembrance of life long ago.
In the shallows an Italian lady I know from yoga is with her son, splish-splashing laughter and love at each other. What a blessing to have born a child, I muse, reminded that ‘if only’ never really leaves us.
To be distracted, I feed threadbare oval-eyed cats the heads and spines from my sardines. It brings a smile.
My gaze reverts to the mother of the murdered child. Does she want to be alone? We have always said hi when we meet, but I don’t know the mother of the murdered child well. I never really knew the murdered child, but in such a small community you kind of know everyone; smile as each flower blossoms, weep as they wither.
I decide to join her in the sea, and if the mother of the murdered child wants to speak, I will listen. If she doesn’t want to speak, we can stand together, and if she doesn’t want me there at all, I will leave.
I approach. She falls into my open arms.
Never have I felt a heart so broken — never such suffering and pain that no mother, no parent, should ever have to endure.
We hold each other still, and here we will stay — even until the sun sleeps behind the mountain, or longer if she wants — until the tomorrows that never come.