I wanted to write to you since I woke up this morning and the air already smelled of full summer, warm and heavy, with that particular light you only get around this time in July.
I went out early, before anyone else was awake. By now I know the paths between the islands well enough to find them almost blind — the narrow passages where the water between two rocks is barely wider than the canoe, the spots where you have to slow down because the bottom comes closer than you’d think.
I couldn’t stop thinking of you, of that afternoon we paddled here together and you said you could imagine staying forever between these islands. I didn’t say anything back then. I think I just wanted to hear the sentence, without answering it.
The bow just lay beside me again today. I didn’t even take it out of its case. Sometimes you don’t need an arrow to know you’re in the right place.
I stopped at one of the small bays where the water is so clear you could count the bottom if you wanted to. I sat there for a while and imagined what it would be like if you were sitting next to me now, without either of us needing to talk. Some silence needs no explanation. It’s simply there, like the water, like the pines, like the quiet path between the islands that I walked alone again today, but didn’t quite feel alone on.
I don’t know if I’ll ever show you this. Maybe it just stays here — a few lines, written on a morning in the middle of summer, for someone who may never walk these paths, but who comes along anyway, whenever I do.
Between closeness and distance.
Between memory and presence.
Between speaking and silence.
