Some mornings she came down and nothing was needed. She was feeling good, ready for the day, her spirits high, and everything in me would relax. I built my love for her around those moments, convincing myself that it was the real version of my mother, not the other, unpredictable one who could turn my whole world black with the flick of her tongue.

After forcing a piece of toast and some coffee into myself, I feel slightly better. I move to the washing machine in a fog and slowly pull out the wet sheets and towels. I’m relieved and surprised to find that the clothesline has survived; it still runs from a hook on the house to a tall pine tree on the other side of the yard. With the speed and agility of an eighty-year-old, I hang each item on the line and pin it into place. The task soothes me with its methodical movement, the quiet of outside and the warm sun on my back. Just keep busy, I tell myself.

A wall of linens is created, blowing in the soft breeze, dissecting the yard down the middle. The task exhausts me, so I lie down on the grass, right underneath a white sheet that hangs only an inch or so above me. It moves gently back and forth, changing my view of the sky second by second.

The grass under my hands is still damp from the dew and gently soaks my back. I imagine sinking down into the dirt below, so deep I can no longer see the sky; so deep my breath is buried. I imagine the worms feasting on my skin and bones, ingesting the grief that’s in every piece of me. Those sad worms then become food for the birds. The birds ingest my grief in turn, then fly it out into the world and spread a plague of sorrow.

Tears bite at the back of my throat. I sit up before they can become full-blown. Move, some part of my brain screams. Pushing myself up off the ground, I swat the white sheet away and start running—across the lawn, around to the front of the cottage, until I find the faintest trace of the path that once led all the way around the island.

I run as fast as I can, slowing only to navigate tree roots, fallen branches, rocks, and the odd small bush that has grown up over time. My atrophied muscles tighten and pop, the loose flesh around them shaking until a hot itch spreads across my skin. My lungs expand and pull in the fresh air, stinging with the effort. The pounding of my blood echoes the pounding of my feet on the soft earth.