He watched from the shore. Waves came in. Sand between his toes. The skyline of Chicago behind him. The Drake Hotel, townhouses on Dearborn, Water Tower, cars moving slowly on Lakeshore Drive. Early morning. Birds flew above.

North Beach was empty. A few runners on the track, but quiet. He had not seen Lake Michigan like this in a long time. He and his wife came here throughout their lives together. Mornings and evenings spent at the beach. Drank coffee with Bailey’s in it. Sometimes, they passed a joint back and forth that they’d stole from their son. That was years ago. Walked with a boom box playing Chet Baker and Bill Evans. A mixtape he’d made for her. The couple held hands. Spoon rings on fingers, made of metal, they became loose throughout the years, until one day they fell off; lost in the sand. Never to be found.

After her death, the old man continued looking for those rings. He bought a metal detector and traced up and down the shoreline. Nothing was ever discovered. They were gone. She was gone.

It’s funny how life takes us on a journey. Through loves, heartbreak, a belly full, a stomach starved, always wondering what is next. Always.

He looked out at the water. Walked into the waves. Stood there. He thought of her. He was happy.