The alarm sounded at 5am. We repacked the overnight bag with a beach blanket and a cardboard postal box with his legal name printed in black lettering on the front, the weight of it in my hand a haunting reminder of his flesh-and-blood realness, my child whom I never got to meet. Driving in silence toward the cobalt horizon, we pulled off at ‘our spot’, parked illegally at the hotel across the way, and slipped into the shadow-shrouded darkness of the dirt path that leads through the shrubs and scrabble separating the ocean from the road. In the watery light of dawn, all mist and the faint beginnings of blazing orange clouds stratified across the eastern sky, my husband read over again the letter he wrote to our first son tearfully at the hotel desk the night before. We clung to each other there for awhile, in the quiet solitude and whooshing heartbeat of the sea, wiped away tears, eventually walking hand-in-hand toward the cresting waves, where we scattered his ashes and watched them wash away with the foam and undertow. It’s easy to be overcome by a sense of infinity in Montauk, its wild and wind-blown vastness: one understands how it earned its moniker, “The End.” He lives here now, body and spirit mingling in the silt and current, unshackled and omnipresent. Fly free, my sweet boy.