While I cleaned the lense on my camera, Maggie had gotten up, and had begun to frolick in the waves, splashing and chasing the water like a child.

“Rob!” She cried, “Come on, the water’s lovely!”

“I’m good,” I shouted back. In all honesty, I was having too much fun watching her.

I remember my mother used to bring me to the beach. Every summer she would pack up the car and drive all the way out to Maine. She was a writer, a fantastic woman full of creativity, who shaped my life more than I ever could have imagined. She said that she would have lived out on the cabin on the lake and write forever with me by her side, but she had responsibilities, she would always say. Her agent in California needed her, was always her excuse. Besides, she despised winter in the East.

I laughed thinking about her.

But I brought myself back to reality. She was gone, but Maine was still here. I never stopped coming back, even when she couldn’t.