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  • Oh the relief of the Sea Mother when the Sea Father returns, at long last, in his driftwood boat with his haul of minnows; her tiny Sea Toddlers will have full bellies tonight when they fall asleep in their slipper shell beds, and then they will sit in front of the fire, he with his pipe and she with her mending, listening to the sound of the ocean and the wind swirl around their little rock world.

    You see, to know anything else -- to know that the tide came in and knocked the house over, or to know that the children who built the house grew up and away, or to know that the Sea Family never really existed at all -- is all too unbearable, here and now, in this big empty house left behind in the wake of everyone having come, and gone.
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