Once again, the fighting begins. I can hear my mother's voice from upstairs. Disappointment and heartbreak runs through her words. Without a single squeak, I carefully open my bedroom door to hear the extent of the conversation. I am only a kid, full of innocence, unaware of what is truly going on beneath me. Slouching at the top of the stairs, I concentrate, engraving every word into my brain. I begin to weep, the salt of my life soaking the sleeve of my sweatshirt as I fight to stay strong. Trying to catch my breath, hot torrents of grief course out my eyes like the breaking of a dam. The racking sobs shake me thoroughly with the knowledge that nothing, absolutely nothing, will ever be the same again. The floorboards behind me creak, sending chills up and down my spine. I twist around to see my sister crouching behind me. She feels the dampness of my skin as she places her hand upon my cheek. Kissing my forehead, she whispers, "It will be okay. Things are going to get better." That day, my sister lied to me. Things crumbled.

Infinite mounds of irregular golden grains sit between me and the horizon. Wedging my hands deep into the coast, I lift up thousands and thousands of coarse particles. I watch the waves as they rise and fall. Each one starts as a little swell of water that grows as it gets closer to shore and then breaks, releasing a mess of white foam. The foam races up the beach. Reaching a certain point, it retreats back to its origin. The waves come again and again tumbling over seaweed, polishing the round pebbles that cover the ocean floor. I close my eyes and listen to the crashing of the waves, each break sounding like a shotgun firing into the dark. The sea is dark and turbulent, seeming as though it is hiding some deep secret beneath its murky waters.

The two-story home, that once was bursting with life, grew quiescent. Creeping down the wooden staircase, I catch a glimpse of my mother sitting at the rectangular dining room table that seats six, a table that once sat every member of my family. My mother's faint sobs consume the house. The four legged chair scrapes at the uneven floorboards, as she cautiously pushes away from the table. Gazing through the spindles, my blue eyes follow my mother's dull blonde hair into the kitchen. That is where you stand. I watch her approach the only thing separating you from her, the granite countertop on the island. I carefully observe your every movement, afraid of what may happen next. You cautiously shift around to where your dark eyes meet my mother's crystals. Nothing is spoken: no words, no whispers, no noise. But at this moment, your eyes say it all; no words are needed to know that what you and my mother had is now gone. The glisten you used to have in your eyes when you saw my mother is now gone. All that is left are empty holes, no passion, no fire, no love. The memory of you walking out of the red door has burned a spot into my heart, a spot that once was meant for you.

The sky bleeds scarlet as the sun creeps over the horizon like a silent murderer. The red flickers and spreads as it is reflected in the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Tybee Island is relatively quiet this time of day. The cool night breeze is getting its final breath of life just before the burning heat of day takes over at seven o'clock am. Although most people are still asleep, I am awake, taking an early morning stroll along the shore that raised me. I take in a fresh breath of the cool fall breeze and a faint salty taste tickles my tongue. As I saunter, I come upon a house, a house that looks awfully familiar to me, a house I once knew so well to be full of joy and happiness. I stop and observe. All that is left is an uneven brick walkway that leads to an aged red door. The door delicately opens and a woman appears. This woman, who no longer looks like the lively woman who raised me, is my mother. As I approach the door, I get a better look at her. With her shoulders slumped over, I catch a glimpse of her red puffy eyes. In a hushed tone, she says, "Sara, it is time to leave." All I could do was look into her eyes and nod, I was unable to make a sound. There is nothing left for us here. The boxes piled up in the corner of my room; my life was packed away into less than a square foot of space. Making sure the memories of my life here are wiped from the room's surface, I mutter in disbelief, "We are leaving." The blue painted room seems alien to me now. There is nothing left here to call mine; all that remains are empty picture frames clinging to the walls, cradled in the negligence of the dark. It is the one reminder that I was once a part of this life, that I was once a part of your life. The fresh and crisp smell of seawater lingers in the air as the car begins to move. I inhale and smile with delight, as the dreadful memories of the past years drift away in a warped path as if they were on a crooked boat. We do not know where we are going, we do not know what life has in store for us, all we know is that we are going to a better place.

It has been fifty-six days since that day; fifty-six days since I sat slouching at the top of the stairs; fifty-six days since we packed our bags and left. Daddy, it has been fifty six days since I last saw you.