My father happens to be a legend here in Whittier and not just for his size; he stands well over six and a half feet tall, with shoulders nearly as broad as the hallway. But mostly for his compassion and mountain-man willingness to pull a stranger’s car out of an icy ditch in the middle of the night, haul off an abusive husband, or chase away a bear from the lobby of our building. When I was a little girl, I asked him how he always seemed to be in the right place at the right time. Learn to listen, Claire, he’d say, and his eyes crinkled with his smile. To this—he’d point to my stomach—and always to this—he’d point to my heart. It won’t let you down. Then he’d wrap me in his arms, and I’d lay my head against his chest, listening to the steady thump, thump of his heart beneath his thick plaid shirt.

I turn on a lamp by my desk—clouds have spilled over the mountains, straining the sun’s already feeble light—and my apartment window creaks against an onslaught of wind. Goose bumps prick the skin on my arms and cool the warmth of the memory. Soon the last cruise ship of the season will sail out of town, the seasonal employees will pack up and leave, and the businesses that line the harbor will shutter their windows for the long, dark winter, when the rain turns to snow and the wind that buffets the window will be the Alaskan kind that can freeze a person’s nose off. I turn my attention to my notebook and read an instructional line: You are hosting dinner tonight. I smile when I see the next line: Recipe and ingredients in the fridge. Good. Cooking will keep my hands busy, my mind focused. Plus, it will be good to see my friends. An uneasiness unfurls deep inside me. Today it feels like I need to see them. I have a feeling I can’t explain, something that ripples just under my skin. Sadness. I run a hand through my short blonde hair, frustrated because I don’t know why I feel this way, and it bothers me to admit that, even if it’s just to myself. It’s like brushing snow off the ground and discovering that I’m standing on a thin sheet of ice with nothing but a deep black emptiness beneath my feet.

Today that feeling is combined with this persistent sense that I’m sad with no idea why. But then I rest my hands across my notebook, and the heavy weight of not knowing lifts the tiniest bit. It’s okay, because everything I need to know is here. From me. In my handwriting. And if I can’t trust my memory, I can always trust my notes.