We stand quietly, my hand on his shoulder, staring out across the ocean.
Every year we do this. I wait for him to speak although I know exactly what he will say. His words have never changed. “I miss them.” Neither has mine. “Me too.”
“Dad, I don’t want to do this again. We need to move on.”
Tears well. “It’s okay, I understand. I’ll come alone next time.”
Same time. Same place. Same words.