My father couldn’t even change a lightbulb without hiring someone to do it. He was wound up too tight, always stressing about appearances, and money mattered to him. He’d grown up with it. His hands and middle were soft because of it. And he treated May and me like we were just extensions of my mother, things for her to take care of and for him to discipline and question now and again.

West was one of the kindest men I knew. He always let me help him with his work when I asked, and he never scolded me for interrupting him if Ezra and I needed help building a fort or getting a Frisbee out of a tree or the canoe up on shore. He’d stop me as I passed by and point out different types of birds on the island, often placing one large, heavy hand on the top of my head, grounding me to the earth and to him. The light that dances in Ezra’s eyes, just like his easy and genuine nature, was most definitely influenced by West.

I suddenly have an overwhelming need to write things down. I’ve learned so much since returning to Avril Island; writing will help me make sense of it all. It used to be the only way I processed things. Writing gave me a way to interpret the world, my life, but I lost the motivation to do that somewhere along the way. I’m surprised and excited to finally have it back.

Going up to my room, I find an old notebook in the desk drawer. It has a few story ideas scratched across the front page in my childish penmanship, but otherwise it’s empty.

There’s no real rhyme or reason to what I’m writing, just descriptions of people, things, and events. I have a feeling that if I can write enough, I’ll be able to string it all together into something more tangible, but for now I just want to get it down. It feels good, like something in me has been curled up and hidden away and is finally unfurling.

I’ve completely lost track of time when a sudden crack of thunder and then a flash of lightning jolt me out of my writing trance. Another storm is rolling in. Late-night storms are not as much fun as daytime ones. Even as a full-grown adult, they creep me out.

My hand aches from all the writing, so I decide to stop there and go up to bed and read until I fall asleep. I close the notebook and tuck it under my arm with a sense of accomplishment. I haven’t written that much in years, and it feels good.