The tempest that was not.

The cold December air was pristine. We were out at sea. My little girl was gazing endlessly at the infinite horizon. A single tear rolled down her cheek but her gaze was fixed, she hardly batted her eyelids. The tear rolled down to her chin and as it was about to drop a slightly stronger breeze blew it away. I touched her on her head asked if everything was alright, she said it was. I had a lump in my throat looking at her, wondering what kind of sadness brought out that single resilient tear. I knew in my heart that the sadness had to be greater than that one single tear. That single tear was was like a mighty tempest that just came and wiped out all the joy of my little girl, shook her little world of glee out of proportion. The devastation inside could only be felt, not seen. I held her close to me and tried comforting her, she said that she misses me. I told her that I miss her too. She looks at me breaking her gaze from the vast horizon and bursts out. The tears are continuous now, gushing out like a storm in the sea wanting to engulf everything in its directionless path. Her face is trembling, I hold it with my palms but the trembling does not stop. I tell her that all will be well, trying to console her. She looked at me and asked me how, how will it ever be well, how will it ever be well now that I am mourning your death after seven years.

The crying stopped, the tears stopped. My little girl smiled wryly taking a deep breath. The tears stopped.