One by one people walked down to the water’s edge. There they lit a candle, which was placed on a small paper boat. The boat was then released and it drifted out to sea, carried by the wind and the receding tide. There was already a fleet, an armada of little boats heading out from the shore, following one another into the darkness.

The monk handed me a candle. He offered one to Sam, and he hesitated, and I knew why.

“We’re not giving up,” I said. “It’s to light the way for her to come back to us.”

Neither of us could fully give up on that last grain of hope.

The monk held out his candle to light ours. “From one flame a thousand candles may be lit,” he said, “to be reborn in a higher form.”

I placed the candle on the little boat. It was so delicate, so fragile. Sam did the same. Carefully we pushed the boats out into the water, and as the wind captured their paper sails they hurried along. The two boats caught those in front and were joined by others from behind until they all merged together, and I couldn’t tell anymore which had been launched by us, or which was for my father and which was for my mother. But it didn’t matter. They were out there, among a hundred boats, two hundred boats, all clustered and glowing. Together, they weren’t so alone.

I looked over at my brother. I squeezed his hand again and he turned to me. Together, we weren’t so alone, either.