Destiny and The Hand Dealt
On our last night in Newfoundland, my eldest son broke all our hearts by beginning to cry, hard. Tears running down my own face, I held him tight, told him what his blood already knows: it's a special place.
"It's always hard to leave," I told him. "It never gets easier."
I kissed his salty hair, unwashed in who knows how many days, cupped his face in my hands and looked deep into his eyes. Crying makes them greener, like my own.
"It's hard," I repeated. "But I can never be sorry I left this place, because when I left it, I met you."