The sea was angry, hurling waves against the rocks as the salty spray stung my skin.

Pat always told me he wanted us to be on the west coast because the waters were calm, not like the violent waves we used to see in Maine.

You certainly couldn’t have proven that to me, not that morning.

Salt water mingled with my angry tears, and I couldn’t miss the fact that the ocean’s turbulent behavior reflected my mood.

I stood looking out at the water, almost in awe of the tantrum; waves battered the shoreline, slamming against each other in thunderous claps that resounded as loudly as cannon shots. I felt an odd desire to shake my fists and cheer it on.

Pat, reduced to ashes and residing in a blue and silver urn, rested in my arms, waiting. I could literally feel him waiting, I tell you. I could hear his voice, urging me to complete my mission: “Just open it, Betsy. Just let me go.”

Of course, at that point angry tears turned to those of pure sorrow. “Oh, Patrick, the sea will just toss you back!”

If only it actually could!

My anger wasn’t with Pat, of course, but directed at the mob who trampled him when he dared attempt crossing the street to push back against their rhetoric and hate-spewing. Being labeled a coward or a fool for trying to do the right thing was something my husband lived with no matter where we made our home.

Police, in spite of the bad reputations assigned to them by protesters and media reports, are by and large working for the good of all. Apparently, that means they have no rights, except the right to die while protecting others.

I took the urn, unopened, to await a calmer sea.

 

Author’s note: Inspired by a prompt from Writers Unite!