Everything seemed calm before the storm – the kind that leaves just enough air for one last breath. I remember the day our storm came. After my last breath, the rain fell. It was a cloudy day. The beach was crowded. You ran to the sea without even listening to me. And you dove so deep you couldn't come back. The water looked sweet to the eyes but was salty to the lips. Salt that can cut the beak, burn the mouth. And I stood there, with my hand outstretched searching for you. Trying to bring you back to the surface, back home. There was so much water, my daughter, that it blurred your vision. Blindness is the fuel of fear. And since you were blind, there was the fear of the truth – a truth that perhaps you didn't want to face or see. You wanted to swim alone. So I surrendered you to the sea.