I wandered along the puddle-drenched promenade, head bowed against the bitter coastal breeze, hands jammed firmly in my coat pockets. It was a late winter afternoon and the weather had chopped and changed all day. The last rain shower had chased off the seaside strollers, so I was alone, save for the squawk of a buffeted seagull out at sea.
I sat on a damp bench and gazed out at the horizon. The fading sun was attempting to break through the shapeshifting clouds, sunbeams shining spotlights on patches of the rough grey sea. Despite the gloom, it was still a beautiful sight. With a heavy sigh, I pulled the tiny ceramic box out of my pocket and opened it to the wind, which snatched the ashes within and scattered them out towards the ocean.
Every year at Christmastime we had come here. We’d spent many hours here, in all weathers, relaxing on our favourite bench and admiring the boundless view. When the tide was low we would paddle our feet, laughing as the icy cold Atlantic tickled our toes. And no matter how much we were shivering, we would always buy an ice-cream. It was tradition.
Continue reading: Tradition – #writephoto – In Emma World