Me and Jon spoke about the wave the whole time though. Maybe we were checking with each other that it really did happen. Dad was less silent these days, but it was something, along with the open verdict, that we never really spoke about. I didn’t know what he thought about it; I didn’t know what he believed. I’d thought hard though. I had reached my conclusions and I knew what I believed. I didn’t think the wave was my mum saying goodbye. I didn’t think it was one last hug or a message from above telling me she was fine now, that she would always be watching over me or anything daft like that. I just don’t believe in that kind of thing. I can’t believe in that kind of thing. It was a coincidence and nothing more. But that doesn’t make it any less special. It doesn’t make it less important. The day we went to say goodbye to Mum, the day we finally laid her to rest, at that exact location, at that second of time, a wave as high as a house sprang from nowhere. It charged through our tiny spot of sea and flung us high into the air. And for a terrifying and glorious second we had no control over our lives and no say in what would happen next. And then we crash-landed, safe and slowly sound, and the wave rolled away to wherever waves roll to. It left us stunned and silent on a small yellow boat three miles out to sea. That’s what happened, that’s the truth. It was special. It was enough.
And I think that is enough.