Tuesdays were once like every other day that sits between Monday and Friday. Work, pick up dinner to feed my family, go home and unwind in my yellow striped hammock. Tuesdays changed 6 months ago when my teenage son got an after school job as a surfing instructor.
Now at 5:30pm on Tuesdays, I talk to dad.
As my little man leads exhausted bodies from the foamy shoreline and packs up his boss’s truck, I walk down behind the Alley Rock. 12 meters of earth standing still. I find myself retracing footsteps from 30 years earlier as I imagine the tiny prints in the soft sand to still be mine. I must be careful when I step over the sharp rocky platform that moss has found its comfort on, not to slip.
As I slide my body across the wet landing that shelters’ me from the spray, I imagine my father’s ashes lying gently across my face. 30 years seems forever since we threw his ashes into the sea, and he may be long gone but I would like to think that he has stayed around, anticipating my visits.