We set out on June 14th, when the summer was still an infant, but seemed much more mature in the Florida Keys, with its slow swinging strides and its easy temper. I was seventeen, consumed by dreams that seemed tangible enough, but still decidedly out of reach: a time when I still had one hand firmly grasped to the handle of my secure past and the other reaching into the murky unknown. A time when the sun began to show me more than just day.

My mother, older brother, uncle, and I stepped out onto the dock. We boarded “The Outer Limit” , a white and crisp pleasure boat, before sun down. Despite the dismal nature of the voyage, I still climbed to the upper level of the small vessel with excitement. I sat near the front of the upper deck with the rest of my family. I had never seen the grandeur and mystery of the ocean before, and I was so entranced with its beauty, I did not think of all the triumphs and tragedies it has seen. We traveled straight and true, none of our heads turning back. The wind whipped over my face, and the salty scent of the water sprayed into my nostrils. Slowly, the shore and the other boats began to disappear. We were alone.

The sun drooped lower now, using the last of its energy to paint its half of the sky with vivid oranges and pinks, ensuring it would not be forgotten when the encroaching midnight blues took over. Not to be outdone, the moon drew up its girth and loudly illuminated itself, reminding us of its nearness. Both the sun and the full moon existed simultaneously and harmoniously, both dominating and sharing the sky. The sky accepted this contradiction with grace, creating an unrivaled beauty.

The boat slowed, and I knew the time was near. The captain cut the engines and the world fell silent, and for the first time I began to hear the whispers of the ocean. The sun was now threatening to touch its toe to the horizon, indicating that our time was short. My mother came out of the cabin with the purple canister. Inside the canister were the cremated remains of my Busia. Purple was her favorite color. The pictures and words on the canister reminded me in a flash of all the beautiful memories I had with her, and to my surprised I smiled. She had died early in the spring, taken by cancer. I had heard many say she was too young to die, only in her sixties, and I had agreed.


This was our final goodbye. I am sad to say I don’t remember the words of the farewell prayer my mother read, but after she said them, she placed the canister in the water. It only bobbed and floated. Like always, Busia refused to be taken down, but fate is an unavoidable friend. My uncle used a net to hold the canister underneath the water to let it seep into the tiny holes on the top of the canister. The water was so dark it seemed to swallow the little purple canister, and yet she still refused, clinging to the surface. Standing at the rail, I again looked at the sun. It was now half below the horizon, still beautiful, but beginning to fade. “There she goes” I heard my uncle say. I looked down. The little purple canister was now free from the net and began to sink gracefully by its own accord. The sharpness of its imaged faded as it lowered itself deeper and deeper, but the refraction of light in the water caused it to glow. I watched it for no more than a few seconds, stunned by its luminescence, and then returned my gaze to the sun only to see that it too had sunk. It was then I realized she had never refused to go, she only waited for the right time. The right time for her, and the right time for us. My family stood in silence.

The engine kicked back on again, and we made one small circle around the spot where we had let her go, as if to mark the place where our beloved would forever rest. Then we turned our tail to that spot, and retraced our steps back into our own lives.

As the boat began the return journey, I stayed on the bottom level, where I would face the site we had just left. As the captain picked up speed, two diagonal waves formed behind us, intersecting and cresting directly behind the boat. To me, they resembled a mystic guardian bird, driving us back to our world, and protecting the tranquility of Busia’s resting place. The sky now grew darker, and the moon had risen and overcome the sun, casting its haunting glow. As we again neared the shore, I saw all the people dancing and celebrating on the pier and at the beach. Something about them drew me from my depths. They were celebrating the setting of the sun. They were celebrating the departure of one of the most important elements of this island’s life. But they knew it was only for a little while. The sun would rise again and all would be reconciled. For now, they celebrated the new adventures the island could offer without the sun, but they would never forget that it had been there. At this moment, my mother snapped a picture of me, silhouetted against the darkening sky, looking out over the ocean. It was a beautiful picture. I was no longer what the sun had left me as. With the beauty of the lesson learned reflected on my face, I became more.

I will never forget that day. I will never forget saying goodbye. I will always remember how the Earth accepted divine intervention to teach me that death, loss, and grief are not the end. The pain may seem unbearable and the future impossible. The darkness of the night will always return with its feelings of loneliness and loss toward the sun. It will never cease for more than a day. I will never forget. But this does not mean I must drown in grief. Even the light of the moon shimmers in the darkness, casting its beauty over the darkness, a reminder that the sun will always rise again.