The Ocean

She had always hated the Ocean.

Or so her family thought.  Her family.  Her friends, her coworkers.  Every time someone had mentioned a day trip to the coast she'd been the first to adamantly shoot it down.

It was speculated that she'd seen a shark as a child, or perhaps been stung very badly by a jellyfish.  Some just assumed she didn't like the salt water, which wasn't altogether uncommon.  Her husband was more perplexed by it.  He loved the Ocean, always had, and loved it more since that's where he'd met his darling wife.  She'd been willing to revisit the surf every so often until she became pregnant with their first child and then she flatly refused to ever go back.

The children were older now.  Lau, the youngest, was already five, and her older sister Kyri was nearly nine.  Their father sometimes wished that they'd get the opportunity to know and love the Ocean as he had, but he respected his wife's wishes and they never visited the spot.

It was only recently that his Wife had fallen ill.  The luster had gone out of her dark blue eyes, the sheen absent from her black hair.  Her skin had grown pale and translucent every day that her energy seemed to wane.  She still smiled for the children, but the laughter had gone out of her voice.  She rarely sang anymore.

Her husband worried day and night.  Begged her to call specialists and doctors, to see what ailed her, but she simply shook her head and told him she knew what it was.  She'd always been stubborn, but now as it looked as though he might lose her he became more opposed to her unyielding desire to handle this herself.

Day and night he would beg her, and she'd simply shake her head, her features almost lovelier still now that they were graying around the edges so prematurely.  

It was an evening like any other when she relented.  Sitting on the bench seat of the big bay window and staring out at the stars, answering his unspoken question even as his arms went around her slender waist.

"I'm dying, my love."  She spoke in that soft voice that always sounded like music to him, "There is only one thing that can be done, but it would mean leaving you."

He was silent for a moment, digesting this new information.  But if it would make her well again, he would sacrifice his last moments with her.  A gentle squeeze of his arms and the gentle whisper, "Tell me what to do."

The children were loaded up into car with sandwiches and games to keep them occupied while their parents drove them to a place they'd never been before.  The normal bickering of young sisters was surprisingly absent from the trip, as though they could sense that something was amiss.  

When they reached the Ocean the girls tumbled out of the backseat to run laughing toward the spray, bare feet leaving trails on the sand to tell where they'd been.  Their father opened his mouth to bid them stay near, but his wife simply laid her hand on his arm and told him to "Let them play."

He didn't understand really.  This sudden change.  But her face lit up as she looked out at the water, her eyes that reflected the color of the depths of the ocean began to sparkle anew.  He grew frightened and his arms tried to go around her again, but she shook her head, leaning in to kiss him goodbye.

"I love you,"  He begged her, and sadness creased her ageless face as she looked up at his.

"And I will always love you,” She promised, her eyes traveling to the children playing on the shore.  "Bring them often to the Ocean.  Teach them to love it as you love it."

He nodded mutely, standing there on the sand watching his wife walk towards the waves.  Her white dress was picked at by the breeze as she walked to her ankles into the water.  The sunlight reflected off of her dark hair, as it did the waves around her.  She only looked back once, and smiled at him with such joy that he couldn't know sadness.

Then she sank into the waves and was no longer wife nor mother, but something else.  Something that was too carefree to bother with the burdens of either, but would never forget, though she could never quite remember.