I woke far too early, 4 am, so early that I had to wait for the sun to rise. It was worth it to watch that fiery ball splitting the horizon while a ghost moon rode behind me, reluctant to leave.

It was leaving that woke me. I dropped daughter Emma at the airport this morning so she could return to Brooklyn and her husband and her crazy pack of pups and kits. We had spectacular days driven only by desire to sit on the beach, eat the best lobster we could find, and just be together.

This was an added week at our summer escape place in Maine. Usually, there are about 10 of us crammed into a beach house. For this much needed repeat, it was just two of us in a tiny house dubbed the “Sandbox” that was outfitted like a Pottery Barn display room or cottage for gnomes away from homes. Cute. A dozen steps from the beach.

As the rotating doors at Portland Jetport (a name that makes me think of the Jetsons) gathered her in, I felt the fissures in my heart. Every time I say goodbye to my children, splits appear. I’ve learned to trust that I’ll see them again and with that trust comes mending like Japanese kintsugi (mending with gold). Ancient art. Ancient wisdom.

This morning, the breaking waves reminded me. What breaks can return.

My heart, after decades of comings and leavings, is a brilliant web of gold, as sparkling as the sun on this perfect September morning.

Betsy Fitzgerald Photo