Page 39 of The Strawberry Field
Then I stand and wander to the back corner of the dock house—the last section I haven’t touched yet.
It’s cluttered with gear. A deflated inner tube. A half-broken paddle. Coiled rope stiff with age.
I reach behind a leaning wooden oar and pause.
Propped against the wall, half-hidden beneath an old tarp, is a single water ski.
Faded blue. UVA sticker curling at the edges.
I know it instantly.
Tommy’s.
I pull it out carefully, brushing away a fine layer of dust. The bindings are worn, the surface sun-bleached and scratched. But it’s here.
Somehow, after all these years, it’s still here.
I sit down slowly, cradling it in my lap. My fingers trace the shallow grooves along the edge, grooves he carved himself when we were teenagers. He called them“battle scars.” Swore they made the ski faster. I’d rolled my eyes but believed him anyway. Because when Tommy said something, I believed him. Always.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.
The ache is still there, sharp as ever, but it doesn’t hollow me out the way it used to. It hurts, but it doesn’t take everything with it.
It’s strange how grief can wait in silence. How it hides in forgotten places and finds you when you least expect it.
I stand and lean the ski gently against the dock wall, upright, in view. Not hidden anymore.
He’s gone.
But he was here.
And part of him still is.
“Let yourself be silently drawn by the strongerpull of what you truly love.”
—Rumi
Chapter Fifteen
Sawyer
I’M SITTING ON the deck later that evening, thinking about what Jake said.
I still have no appetite. I’m too tired to cook. Maybe still too numb to want anything at all. I sip a glass of white wine, chilled and dry, and set it down on the rail, blinking into the yard where something moves near the edge of the trees.
At first, I think it’s a dog, skinny, with sharp angles and an alert posture. It sits on its haunches, facing me. The light is dim, but I have the strange sensation it’s watching me. I don’t move, afraid to startle it. Afraid it will vanish before I can make sense of its presence.
Slowly, as my eyes adjust, I realize it’s not a dog at all.
It’s a coyote.
A twinge of unease coils in my chest, but it fades quickly. After everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve lived through, this doesn’t feel like fear. Not real fear. Not the kind that changes you.
He stays there. Still. Focused. Thin. Maybe old. Maybe lost.
And suddenly, I feel something strange. Like I recognize him. Or maybe I just understand him. Alone. Unsure of where to go. Looking for something he probably won’t find.
Without letting myself overthink it, I pull out my phone and call Jake. Reaching for someone feels foreign… but it doesn't feel wrong. Not tonight.
