A TOSS OF HOPE
WRITTEN BY RABIN
EXPERIENCED BY LADY RABIN & RABIN
In 2022, my wife and I traveled to Washington State with her father and his wife to say goodbye to someone who had left an immeasurable mark on her life: her grandfather. We had gathered to honor his life, attend his funeral, and find our own ways to process the loss of someone so deeply loved.
Afterward, we spent time exploring the breathtaking beauty of the Pacific Northwest. Towering trees stretched toward the sky, fresh water flowed through the landscape, and wildlife moved freely through a world that seemed untouched by time. There was something peaceful about being surrounded by so much natural beauty, as though the earth itself understood that we needed a little space to breathe.
One of the places we visited was Squamish Harbor, where a vast, beautiful body of water stretched out before us. We walked along the shoreline, taking in the scenery and allowing ourselves to exist in the moment. There were no expectations to talk, no pressure to feel better, and no need to explain the emotions we carried. We simply walked together.
Every so often, my wife would look out across the water before lowering her eyes to watch her steps. In the distance, her father and his wife walked separately, giving us room to be together.
I knew how much her grandparents had meant to her. I had heard the stories of her childhood visits to Washington, of the freedom she felt there, and of the way she could simply be herself in their presence. Her grandfather had given her something precious: the permission to be a child without fear, without pretense, and without needing to be anything other than who she was. Her grandmother had offered that same love.
They had given her a place where she could feel safe, understood, and completely loved.
Her grandmother had passed away years before, and now, with her grandfather gone too, it felt as though another piece of that childhood world had slipped away. Attending his funeral had been an opportunity to honor him, but I imagine it had also meant confronting the reality that two people who had helped shape her heart were no longer physically here.
As her husband, I wanted nothing more than to comfort her. But I also knew that grief is a deeply personal journey. Sometimes, love means holding someone close. Other times, it means walking beside them quietly, allowing them to feel whatever they need to feel without trying to fix it.
So that is what I did.
We talked occasionally about the weather, the colors surrounding us, and how beautiful everything looked. Every now and then, a smile would find its way onto her face, and each time it did, my heart felt a little lighter. Yet I could still see the sadness behind those smiles. I knew she was carrying something that words alone could never fully ease.
I wanted to give her a moment of happiness, even if it was only a small one.
And so, in the simplest and perhaps silliest way I could think of, I picked up a rock.
As she stood looking out over the water, I approached her and held it out.
“Here,” I said. “Make a wish with this rock and throw it out there into the water.”
She looked at me with an amused smile, humoring my little idea. She took the rock, paused for a moment, closed her eyes, and made her wish. Then she tossed it into the harbor, watching as it broke the surface with a small splash before disappearing beneath the water.
I picked up a rock of my own and did the same.
It was such a simple moment. Two people standing beside the water, tossing rocks into the distance, hoping for nothing more than a little comfort.
Or so I thought.
A few seconds passed, and when I turned back toward my wife, she was crying.
Not just shedding a few tears, but crying with an intensity that immediately caught me off guard. My heart sank. I wondered whether my suggestion had stirred something painful inside her, something I had never intended to bring to the surface.
I moved closer, wrapped my arm around her, and gently asked, “Aw, precious, are you okay? I'm sorry if that was a stupid idea.”
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she lifted her gaze and pointed out toward the water.
I followed her finger, looking across the harbor, unsure of what I was supposed to see.
And there they were.
Two otters floating along the surface of the water, moving together as though they were playing. They drifted peacefully through the harbor, completely at ease, sharing a moment of their own in the middle of the vast, beautiful landscape.
I looked at them, then back at my wife, still trying to understand why this had affected her so deeply. I looked back out to find them, but as quickly as they surfaced, the disappeared.
Then she told me.
Her wish had been to know that her grandfather had found her grandmother in the afterlife, and that the two of them were together again, happy and at peace.
My eyes filled with tears. The sight before us was no longer simply two otters floating across the water. To my wife, it was something far more meaningful. She had closed her eyes and made a wish born from the deepest part of her heart, a wish rooted in love, longing, and the hope that the two people who had given her so much happiness in life were together once more.
And almost immediately, two otters appeared, moving together across the water.
I cannot tell you what the universe intends when it gives us moments like that. I cannot prove what happens after this life, nor can I explain why certain experiences arrive at precisely the moment we need them.
But I can tell you what I witnessed.
I watched my wife receive a moment of comfort when she needed it most. I watched grief give way to wonder. I watched a wish that had been made in silence become something she could see with her own eyes.
And I watched her feel, if only for a moment, that the people she missed so terribly might still be together somewhere beyond the reach of our understanding.
We stood there and cried together, holding one another. There was nothing left to say. No explanation could have made the moment more beautiful, and no words could have captured what it meant to us.
For a little while, the grief was still there, but it no longer stood alone.
It was accompanied by hope.
Eventually, we made our way back to her father and his wife and shared what had happened. Her father listened with an expression of amazement, a smile slowly finding its way across his face. There was something moving about seeing him take in the story, as though he, too, recognized the significance of what we had witnessed.
Not every experience needs to be explained to be meaningful. Sometimes, the beauty of a moment lies in the fact that it leaves us with more wonder than answers.
The reaction from his wife seemed different, almost as though she felt disappointed that such a moment had not happened to her. That reaction stayed with me, because it made me think about how differently we can respond when someone else experiences something deeply personal and beautiful.
It reminded me that not every meaningful moment is meant to belong to everyone in the same way.
Sometimes, we are the ones who receive the comfort. Sometimes, we are the ones who witness it. And sometimes, our role is simply to stand beside someone else and be grateful that they were given something their heart desperately needed.
That day, I began to understand something that has stayed with me ever since.
Perhaps the universe doesn't always answer our questions in the ways we expect. Perhaps it doesn't always give us certainty, and perhaps it doesn't always take away the pain we carry. But every so often, in the middle of our most vulnerable moments, life offers us something that allows us to breathe a little easier. Something that reminds us that beauty still exists, that love still matters, and that even in the presence of loss, there is room for hope.
