There are memories that never erase.

Those moments were our summer rituals: a fresh morning by the sea, the wind sneaking into our coats, our rusty sandals slamming on the rocks, our hands carrying a exhaust, a worn bucket, a small picket. We had fun picking up bigorneaux, oysters, clams — in an accomplice and silent silence, only troubled by our laughter and enthusiasm of each find.

I slipped a turtledove there, because his song immediately brings me back to you, to our holidays. Like a discreet sign, a watchful presence, a memory that returns without warning.