For all its casual awkwardness, the ceremony has the beautiful finality of a funeral. Wren, wearing a long black cape and jeweled everything, including sparkly flecks around her eyes, shares a few monotone words about how decay is needed for growth and letting go of past pains will do the same for us that it does in nature—she’s very profound for a seventeen-year-old.

She tells us to speak or not, however our hearts guide us. Then, she releases her boat first after showing us how to fold it. It drifts into the almost stagnant water, finding a little breeze to travel on.

She lights a thick stick of sage, running the smoke clouds over herself, which she does for each of us in turn after we release our boats.

Wade goes next, saying nothing, eyes glassy with tears—he claims allergies, but we all know better. I imagine guilt over Maureen makes his list, but I hope he also includes the grudge with Mack. It’d be such a joy to bring the Tripp family back together.

Christie clears his throat and says, “I’m letting go of insecurities for having a sensitive soul and liking pretty things. My wife, Wren’s mom, would say I wasn’t ‘man enough’ for her, and that was long before I wore what I wanted. She also dressed Wren in pink hair bows and frilly dresses, so she didn’t know us at all. She could never know us or love us truly, if she refused to see us as we are.”

He pulls Wren close to his side, and she leans her head against his shoulder.

“Wren and I have been exactly ourselves since she left,” he says, “and we’re happier for it. So, goodbye, Jessie Dean, and all your hate talk and narrow-minded judgments. I will never again apologize for being myself.”

“Neither will I,” Wren says, “and that’s entirely thanks to you, Dad.”

“Love you, Moonbeam.” He sets his boat free, his long, floral kimono flapping as he wishes it away. Wren puts her black lace arm over his shoulders before cleansing him with the sage’s smoke whisper.

Roy steps into the dock’s center. “I have a statement prepared.” He sets down the paper plate of chicken wings he brought with him, still holding the drum he’s in the middle of eating. BBQ sauce covers his lips and drips into his unkempt, patchy facial hair.

“I deeply regret my actions in buying the babydoll nightie,” he says, eyeing me between glances at his paper, “and any discomfort it caused. My heart is bigger than my brain. That said, I’m letting go of certain ideas about women—Wren helped me make a comprehensive list.”

He holds up the BBQ-stained page that contains dozens of listed items.