Page 92 of Any Port in a Storm

I remember when he died, going to his house with my parents, trying to clean out some of his clothes. Grandma Eleanor was still alive then, so we weren’t doing anything with the rest of their belongings, but she wanted to donate some of his suits and nicer ties to those less fortunate.

My grandparents were always thinking of others like that.

It was while I was elbows-deep in his side of the closet that I found the chess set. I’d remembered it from my childhood, because at one point, Grandpa had it displayed in their living room. The pieces were carved of dark and light blue sea glass, and the board itself was painted to look like waves. It reminded me of our beach vacations together.

As far back as I can remember, I was captivated by the chess set. I always wanted to play with my grandfather, and when I was about five, he decided I was ready to learn.

I’ve never been great at chess, but whenever we got together, Grandpa Charlie would ask if I wanted to practice. I think he went easy on me, but he never let me win outright. I learned a lot from him, both about the game and about patience. Kindness. Grit.

When I found the chess set in his closet that day, I burst into tears, surrounded by suits and dress khakis and ties on the floor. I think that’s the first time it really sank in for me—that he wasn’t coming back.

Eleanor found me like that, wracked by sobs and lost in a sea of department store menswear.

“Laurel,” she said, sinking with great effort onto the bed. “What can I do?”

“I just…I miss him,” I’d whispered.

Grief bubbled beneath her lashes. “I miss him, too.”

I reached up to squeeze her hand in mine. “I’m so grateful we have him to miss.”

She’d nodded; let the tears fall like rain. “I know exactly what you mean.”

We’d sorted in silence for a bit, me putting ties next to her on the bed so she could lay one last, lingering hand on them before I boxed them up for Goodwill. When we finished, her attention drifted to the chess set.

“He’d want you to have that,” she said softly.

“Oh. I don’t…that’s yours,” I told her. I didn’t want Eleanor to feel like we were pulling the rug of her life out from under her. Charlie’s loss was most profound for her, after all. These were the artifacts of their life together.

Eleanor had wiped her eyes, then smiled gently. “I want you to have it. So you’ll always remember him.”

“No chance I’ll forget.” I’d wrapped her in a tight hug. “But thank you. I’ll treasure it always.”

I consider the chess set now, abandoned mid-game last night when Nick and I got lost in each other. There’s something sort of poetic, I think, about its presence here today.

It’s like Charlie’s here, whispering in my ear that it’s going to be okay. Beaming comfort from whatever ocean breeze he inhabits now to me; to Nick. Across the Atlantic to Nick’s grandfather, which feels so far, but which is really just on the other side of Boston.

If we skim our hands across the water at the harbor, and Lucy does the same outside Dublin, we’ll be touching the same ocean. We’re never as far apart as we feel.

We’re all just waves on the ocean of eternity, rising and cresting and petering out. But nothing’s ever really lost—the energy’s absorbed back into the sea, with the promise of new waves in perpetuity.

That’s the beauty of the ocean, I think—it’s all of us, all mixed up, forever. There’s no beginning or end.

Nick stirs in my lap, and I run my hands through his hair; press a kiss to his forehead. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”

He smiles faintly, then falls back to sleep.

TWENTY-SIX

last january

“Ugh,” I groan, slamming the lid of my laptop shut. “This dissertation is going to be the death of me.”

Nick closes his book. “I certainly hope not.”

“No, it’s true.” I throw my head dramatically against his couch. “It’s going to kill me. Maybe even tonight.”

He slides to sit beside me, his thigh brushing mine. “Well, we can’t have that.”