A year ago today my wife died. Early, I woke. I am in Key West, with Wilson, 100 feet from the ocean at a site in a camping area where I am the only one. We walked down to the beach in the soft, warm air, little humidity and a clear, clear sky.

Turning to the beach, I suddenly saw the blinking green light of a buoy close off shore. “Daisy’s Light” — Johanna had loved Fitzgerald. She had walked his steps on the Mediterranean coast. Her daughter had been reading “The Great Gatsby” for school early in our romance. Her boyfriend at the time, Ethan, had remarked on Dr T. J. Eckelburg’s eyes. It became an insider story, resonant in romance, unremembered until know.

Wilson and I walked to the beach. My original purpose had been to see if we could see the Southern Cross, low on the horizon. It is not the best season, but it is possible. I also remembered I had a small sachet of fine sand from Little Compton beaches. My scattered handful lay on the wind in a small plume, white against the dark ocean, then it disappeared. Once, twice, thrice. Closer and closer to the water.

Wilson and I had walked the Little Compton beach two or three hours before her passing. Again, early, but not so early as nautical twilight. Like this night, it was a clear morning. We could see the off-shore towers and blades of the newly installed windmills. Whatever your politics on off-shore wind power, it has changed the view. It felt, in my mind, no longer Johanna’s beach. A farewell but also a new world becoming.