The geese have flown over the island house for five days now at precisely the same early morning hour, at precisely the same angle, as if the white cottage is a compass point on their journey south. It is only August I say, as their wings send quick dark shadows over the floor. It is too early I cry out the half-cracked window. Turn around I whisper as they disappear over the passage.

A friend died this weekend. Hard mourning has caught me sideways and spins me: I wince at the many vague promises made for coffee and wine together, those squandered opportunities to remind him how essential his thoughts, how astute his editing, how bottomless his kindness and applaud over my small successes. To congratulate him on his newest manuscript. He was always here, being amazing just a text away and then he was not and my heart has a hole.

I rage against this life lesson: who do I think I am, to assume I have endless time spooling ahead of me? Regret is a bitter ash in my mouth and I spit. How can I forget this taste time and time again?

And then it is the hour, early enough that drops of dew are still gathered on the green apples. I hear them first, then look up as they rush over me, so close to the roofline I think I can reach up and grab a tail feather and in that moment my grief changes to an energy that surges through my fingertips as I watch them fly, all my senses alive. Thank you my accomplished, kind friend, how lucky we were to have you. I will remember.

For Charles.