I slide the boat into gear and very slowly make my way across the bay. The closer I get to the dock, the more I lose the boating confidence I regained on the drive over. Docking was always the hardest part. I take my time, reversing twice until I’ve got just the right angle, silently cursing the pull of the water. There was almost always someone on the dock to catch me, to lessen the impact of boat against wood, to correct my mistakes. I flip the bumpers down and hope they’ll compensate for my rusty docking skills.

When I finally make it up against the dock, there’s a slight crunch. I start to panic but then relax. My mother isn’t here to witness the mistake and punish me. Nobody is.

I climb out of the boat and hurriedly tie up the bow before the stern drifts too far from the dock to reach it. Only once both ends are secure do I stop and let it all sink in.

I’m standing on Avril Island. On a dock I thought I’d never see again. I slip my shoes off so that I can feel its rough surface under my bare feet. How many splinters did my mother tweeze out of my feet from this dock? How many times did I pull myself from the cool water and lie on its surface, soaking warmth from its sun-drenched wooden boards?

I listen to the water breaking over the rocky crib beneath me. Return. It’s an action that’s taken for granted. Only appreciated when you lose the place you want to return to most. My anger that the possibility of this return was kept from me is slowly draining away, whitewashed by my gratitude. I’m back, and suddenly that’s all that matters.

I leave my bags in the boat. There’s no point in taking them up to the cottage until I know what I’m dealing with. Slipping my shoes back on to make the trek up, I step from the dock onto land. It’s hard not to feel as though the trees have grown up to protect the place from the rest of the world. Now here I am, about to cross the barrier of new growth—to wake her from a deep sleep.

There’s a hush as soon as I step through the gate of trees. It’s cooler too—the sun has to work hard to break through the thick, leafy canopy. In the absence of people tramping along the path, the ground beneath my feet has become soft and spongy with needles and moss. Each step I take sends up a scent of pine and damp earth.