tatamagouche scene, pre-edits. (Patreon)

2.

We walk at night, alone, nobody keeping a watchful eye on our grief. Down the long gravel lane from the house. Sometimes we walk holding hands, or sometimes Sunday trails behind me, thinking. Or maybe not thinking. That would be nice. I would like to not think. Sometimes we walk alone, but tonight there is a toad, skin like gravel, and I pick him up.

“Let me see,” Sunday says, and I show her the toad. He sits in my palm. He doesn’t wriggle for freedom like a frog would. He’s easy. “You can’t bring him with us.”

She keeps walking.

I put the toad back down with the rest of the gravel, and hurry to catch her.

“He would never find his way back,” Sunday says. ”It would be forever to a toad.” She slips her hand into mine. We walk to the end of the drive, where we turn left. There are no cars now. The sky is empty and full at the same time. Stars so small it seems impossible that we can see them so clearly. It makes the road seem darker.

The building beside the pier doesn’t have a sign out front. It doesn’t have any windows. It just has a big padlocked door. Lobster traps are everywhere, set back from the water, stacked on dry land.  Sunday climbs up on top of a trap, then onto a higher stack. They’re held together with green rope. I climb up beside her, and we sit looking out at the pier. When looking at the pier is too hard, I look up at the sky.

Soon we will climb down and walk out onto the pier.

We will hold hands, and we will look over the edge again.