A week ago, I took the two potted plants I had in my room to the hill overlooking the bay. I climbed as high up as my weary legs would take me and with my bare hands, dug four holes. Silently, almost reverently, I transplanted the plants and wished with all my heart that they would live long and happy lives. (Maybe I just needed closure.)
I sat, with the dirt still clinging to my palms and the sun kissing my bare legs, and watched the sunset.
I thought: Sometimes pain is too private a thing to describe with words.
The sun sets and the waves crash against the shore.
Around the hills, the wind howls.