Again and just as before, sitting on the edge of the dimly lit dilapidated dock as he had done in years past, dangling his feet over the edge and brushing the water. Here he is again licking the last little bit of his vanilla flavored frozen custard out of the slightly mush remains of a once crunchy cone.  Flashes of a vision flash past his eyes, of laughs and of three small children, of a sunnier time with seagulls soaring and the smell of fish hovering above the ground like the waves of hot air from the midday heat of July. With a heavy sigh he stands up and turns his back on these memories, the swirling mist of the past. Ahead at the base of a great oak tree is a broken rowboat and in its overarching protection stand three miniature crosses each with a newly picked light purple orchid at their base.