Trinity Lake - Day 9 - Evening

 

Bud’s Dinner

Steak

Baked potatoes

Caesar Salad

Vin Rouge

 

 

So Bud arrives at my site, 

saying that seeing it was such a beautiful 

day he thought I may wish to stay

one more night.

 

I am ecstatic.

We stow his (quite large) backpack of 

supper makings in the treetop kitchen, 

then return to the water’s edge, strip, 

and spend a glorious hour, floating, 

treading water, and talking.

After a meal of cheese, crackers, 

trail mix, and a bag of fresh crudités, 

which he has gifted to me,

(the best gift after nine days), 

we take my cedar stretcher frame  

out into the water. 

Bud gathers up the unused cedar poles 

and lays them across it, lashing them 

to the frame with some of my fine 

strong rope, and creates the best sort of 

impromptu raft.

 

Like two eleven-year-olds, we play on 

this, paddling it out into the lake.

At one point, Bud heads for shore and 

retrieves two still quite cool bottles of 

Steamwhistle from the bow of his canoe.

And swims them out to the raft.

 

When I am too cold to stay in the water 

any longer, 

we get a good cooking fire going and, 

bundle up in hoodies, trackpants, 

red wool socks.

Later, he pours me a cup of wine, 

and proceeds to single-handedly 

concoct dinner.

 

It just doesn’t get any better than this.

 

 

         

 

 

                                                *

 

 

 

 

“I love you not only for what you are,

but for what I am when I am with you.

I love you not only for what you have 

made of yourself,

but for what you are making of me.

I love you for the part of me you bring 

out;

I love you for putting your hand in my

heaped up heart

and passing over all the foolish weak 

things

that you can’t help dimly seeing there

and for drawing out into the light all the 

beautiful belongings

that no one else has looked quite far 

enough to find.

 

I love you because you are helping me 

to make

out of the lumber of my life not a tavern 

but a temple;

out of the works of my every day

not a reproach but a song.

I love you because you have done

more than any creed could have done 

to make me good,

and more than any fate to make me happy.”

 

- from the writings of the Jewish poet,

Martin Buber

 

 

 

 

                                   

 

                                                     *

 

 

 

 

 

August , 2014

 

On a windy late-August morning, a day 

with clouds scuttling across the sky like 

banners, a dark blue Ford rental car 

pulled up at our door.

I could see the slightly apprehensive 

look on the driver’s face even 

from the kitchen window.

She took a minute to organize things

 then stepped out,

her long-legged seven-year-old 

climbing out of the back.

 

We were outside before they needed to 

figure out which door to go to.

 

Bud went to Meg, took her hands in his, 

had a long moment of eye contact and 

grinned like a new father.

It was a meeting with only a moment of 

awkwardness. 

As he described later, as soon as they 

were face to face, 

he could see himself in her.

 

She was very like Wren, with Bud’s 

colouring and facial features, but her

manner, the way she moved,

her expressions, were Wren.

I felt the unstoppable tears 

and laughingly hugged her.

 

The child, Elle, was unbelievably like 

Ginny.

 

As the visit progressed, we told Elle 

about 'Aunt Ginny’, and about her

 unknown Windsor great-grandparents.

Elle was keen on drawing, 

and I hauled out markers and paper.

She showed interest in my studio, 

in my paints and brushes, handling them 

carefully. 

I suggested that next time she visited 

perhaps she could paint. 

Her response was to turn to her mother

and say:“Can we come back here again?”

 

I was stunned by how comfortably Meg 

and Bud chatted.

While Elle and I drew, Bud took Meg 

outside to see the canoe shed and 

his latest canoe refurbishment. 

When they returned, 

we had a buffet lunch.

 

We had a gift for Elle, but waited for 

the right moment, not wanting to 

overwhelm anyone. 

She unwrapped it carefully, 

and gasped in delight when she saw 

a mini watercolour set which folded out

to reveal paints, brush, a small water 

container and a wee pad of paper. 

She examined them all, 

then replaced everything and 

closed it up again, 

at least six times.

 

We talked about Wren.

 

While Elle was busy drawing, Meg told us 

about her illness, but also about her work, 

her success as an editor and publisher, 

her marriage to David.

She was keen to know about her mother 

when we knew her. I heard myself describe 

the Wren I first knew and loved - 

about camp, canoe trips, 

a mutual love of Trinity Lake.

I thought this would be difficult for Bud, 

but looking directly at Meg, he added:

 

“Trinity Lake was wilderness back then.

The three of us did the Loop in ’74, 

a pretty rugged route.

Your mother was a star on a canoe trip…

a much better canoeist than me.”

 

They left mid afternoon, heading for an 

overnight in Ottawa before returning to 

Montreal. 

We made a tentative plan to have them 

come and stay with us for the 

Thanksgiving weekend, 

with the hope that Ginny and Margie 

would come as well.

 

As they were leaving, Elle spotted our 

collection of paddles, 

hanging in the hallway. 

She gently touched the smallest one, 

pointing out to her mother 

the burnt initials. 

D. B. B.  11   1966

Me: “That was my paddle when I was

 at camp.”

Elle: “What’s zipaya….?

Me: “zip adee doo dah.

It’s from a song. A happy song. 

It reminds me of someone I loved 

very much.

 

Elle: “Oh.”

And then,

        “What should I call you?”

 

Bud: “How about Bud and Beck?”

 

As they turned the corner on the 

laneway and were no longer

 in sight, me to a smiling Bud, 

saying the only thing left to say.

 

Wow.

Trinity Lake - Day 9 - Afternoon

 

Bud.

 

And there he was, far out on the lake 

in the soft morning light, 

approaching slowly.

 

I had had time to follow my newly cleared 

trail down to the canoe, 

flip it over, 

haul it into the water, 

climb in, and paddle over the 

still green water toward him.

When I was within about fifty feet,

I wondered what on earth I looked like.

I turned, dipped lake water over my face, 

rearranged my hair elastic, and turned back.

 

He smiled.

 

"You did it.”

"You look great."

"I am so much in love with you.”

 

 

 

                                     

                                       *

 

 

When I think of that final canoe trip 

with Wren,

Wren and Bud and me,

in some ways it feels like last year,

in some ways like someone else’s life 

altogether.

 

All of the markers in life since then,

large and small  –

 

births, deaths, weddings,

funerals, reunions, openings,

graduations, successes, failures –

 

make me see that time has passed.

All of the interests pursued,

the responsibilities taken, 

the friendships forged,

all adding up to the making of a life.

For the most part, a happy life.

 

And of course, too, throw in 

the occasional earth-shattering, 

life-changing event.

                                         *

 

 

 August, 2014 

 (One month earlier) 

As I sliced veggies for a stir-fry, 

I saw Bud drive in, 

get out of the truck, amble slowly

toward the house 

with something bulky.

He came in the kitchen door, 

his bare brown arms 

dropping an elastic tied bundle 

on the counter beside me.

 

“Mail.”

 

I wiped my hands, 

and removing the elastic,

sorted through the flyers, internet ads, 

newsletters. 

At the bottom of the pile, a long slim

envelope, 

somewhat damp from being pressed

against the bottom of 

a leaky rural mailbox.

 

“This one’s had a rough ride.”

“It’s for you, Mr. B. Ryder.”

 

Bud took it, looking at it quizzically.

 

He read it, facing toward the large 

south-facing window,

his back to me.

He was so still, the only movement as 

he shifted his weight from one leg

to the other.

 

He turned, handing me the letter.

 

“You might want to read this.”

 

 

  August 3, 2014

 

Dear Mr. Ryder,

 

I am writing to you with regard to my mother, 

who I think was an old friend of yours.

I am the daughter of Wren Sutherland,

(formerly Wren Millais).

I’m sorry to let you know that she died

of breast cancer 

two weeks ago. 

It was quite quick. She had been well for a 

couple of years after being in remission, 

but the cancer returned.

 

Before she died, my mother wanted me 

to know certain things from her past.

Let me preface this by saying that 

I have a good relationship with my father,

and can’t imagine being 

without him right now. 

But the truth is that my mother believes

that you are in fact my biological father. 

I was born May 19, 1975, 

and although she was married 

to my dad at that time, she told me that

the timing was such that she believes

that she was pregnant 

before having any relations with

my father.

 

I understand that, according to my mother, 

you are married to Diana Becquet. 

If this is something that you wish to keep 

private,

I totally understand and will do nothing 

to complicate things for you.

Having said that, I would love to meet 

you both. 

My mother said that the last time 

you saw each other had been difficult.

But I can tell from the way she spoke

that she loved you both.

 

I will be in Ontario the last week in August 

with my little girl, Elle. 

She is seven, and only knows that there are 

people in Ontario who she is related to.

Again, if this is too difficult, I understand.

I will include my contact information below.

 

Many thanks,

Meg Sutherland

 

Trinity Lake - Day 9 - Morning

  

Peas porridge hot,

Peas porridge cold.

Peas porridge in the pot,

Nine days old.

Some like it hot,

Some like it cold,

Some like it in the pot,

Nine days old.

 

-Traditional nursery rhyme

 

 

My eighth night is uneventful.

 

So much for the celebratory last evening.

Although, it had everything I wanted – Spaghetti alla Puttanesca, red wine, and one bone-weary body

from a day spent enveloped in art.

After dinner and another glass of wine, I had climbed into the tent to organize my gear. 

The slanting rays of the evening sun made the light peach-coloured and warm. It was beyond cozy.

And the next thing I knew, 5:48 a.m.

 

An hour before sunrise, but enough light to see,

to get the fire going.

I make tea and a pot of oatmeal. It’s a cool morning and the dew, chilly.

The idea of oatmeal and maple syrup is all-consuming.

 

I am really in no great rush today, my last day.

The plan was, on Day 9 to meet Bud at the landing at 6 p.m., and go out to dinner at ‘The Cabin’, 

a small but quite good restaurant ten kms into our journey home.

 

I have all day.

I have just about made it.

I am feeling ecstatic.

 

 

                                          *

 

 

As the pot of oatmeal sits, I lay out bowl, spoon, syrup.

There’s usually quite a chatter of birds and small creatures as everything starts to lighten. 

But even with this, I pick out a sound over the water – distant and gentle.

 

Dip dip and swing.

 

                                         *

 

 

Fall, 1974

 

And time, as it does, passed.

 

I immersed myself in my art studies at U of T after that disastrous summer’s end.

And listened to a lot of Neil Young. 

I heard from Bud about two weeks into September, 

asking if he could come to see me in Toronto sometime.

I agreed, but wanted time. I felt that I needed to talk to Wren, to get a sense of where we were, 

and what to expect.

 

With trepidation, I phoned.

She was disinterested in speaking to me, but agreed.

She said that she and Bud had had a bit of a fling that last night, but did not elaborate. 

She said that it meant nothing to her, that it had been a matter of too much wine, 

that she had met someone at the publishing firm earlier that summer, 

that they were now seeing each other, and basically, that she wanted to put both me and Bud 

in the past, out of her life.

 

With a voice that betrayed my emotions, I told her that I loved her.

There was a long silence, and then:

 

“Diana, I can’t do this.

 I need to find my own way.

I wish you all the best.”

 

On the Thanksgiving weekend, Bud and I walked the boardwalk, walked for hours.

We had a slow stilted beginning, conversation-wise. He tried to start saying something, then stopped. 

I could see that he was deeply conflicted.

I waited.

We marched our way along the old boardwalk, the grey boards warm and comforting.

After about twenty minutes, he came out with a long disjointed stream of words, 

mumbled in a way that I missed a good deal of what he said, mumbled like the thirteen year old boy

I had first met.

And yet, I got the gist.

We went to sit on a bench near the shore, off the beaten path. 

I was stunned to see tears as he turned to look at me.

He was pouring out his heart in the only way he could.

 

Bud was staying with Ginny and Margie that weekend

I was sure that Ginny had been the driving force behind Bud – 

the Bud who was actually doing something about that last Loop night, and not letting it ride, 

waiting to see what happened.

We agreed that we wanted to see each other, that we wanted to give our relationship - 

our relationship that was in the premature infancy stage –

 a chance.

 

We talked about Wren, but only Wren as part of our past.

 

What I really wanted was space and time. I wanted to concentrate on my art. 

I felt like the Bud-Wren-Me triangle were pressing it on me, fencing me in, keeping me from focusing on

my university work. I realize now that I was, in many ways, mourning the loss of Wren. 

Sometimes in the night, I would convince myself that I could make things work, 

that she could still be part of my life, 

our life.

But with the cold Ontario dawn, I knew that this wasn’t going to happen.

 

Bud and I waited until classes were over the following Spring to see each other again.

We had spoken on the phone now and then that winter, but apart from that, Bud abided by my wishes 

and left me alone.

Left me alone, with the promise that in the Spring, we would try again.

 

As far as Wren went, I had sent her a Christmas card, my only communication with her since 

the phone call.

She replied, sending a formal business card with the typed message:

 

“Happy Holidays,

 Wren and David”

 

And then, during my reading week a terse note, (without much happiness), saying that 

on February 1, 1975, 

she and David had married.

 

I wrote to her when my mother died that Fall, having had a stroke and dying in hospital two weeks later, 

at the age of fifty-nine. 

I thought, as she was fond of my mother, that she would want to know.

 

However, I received no reply.

 

And that, for me, was the end of Wren.

I heard nothing more from or about her. 

That is, until three weeks ago.

Trinity Lake - Day 8 - Evening

  

Spaghetti alla Puttanesca

 

2 tbls. olive oil

1 onion, chopped

2 garlic cloves, chopped

pinch dried herbs

anchovy fillets

2 tsp. capers

black olives, pitted

small can tomatoes

red wine

spaghettini

grated parmesan cheese

 

Simmer all sauce ingredients.

Pour sauce over al dente pasta. Top with cheese.

Serve with a hearty red wine.

 

 

                                               *

 

I open the tin of anchovy fillets, half of which I consume on crackers with my first glass of vino rosso.

 

I have spent the afternoon pouring myself into my large artwork. It is now off of the stretcher frame, being removed as I do dinner prep.

Before dark, it will be rolled, tied, and stowed in the canoe.

 

I’m happy with it.

Having said that, I know that I really won’t be able to tell if my work on it is complete until it is hanging on the wall of my studio.

It is always the final judgment.

But the addition of the thin red tentative unsure marks has made a huge difference – taking the artwork from a landscape, 

an abstract landscape,

to a work which tells the story of my nine-day solo canoe trip, with all of the memories, joys and sadness.

 

And loss.

 

 

                                              

 

                                             *

 

 

August 1974

 

I really just wanted to be alone.

 

My mother was big on mending relationship problems, and after my initial collapse into tears, she snapped questions at me, the answers to which I was not prepared to discuss.

She meant well but it only made things worse.

My memory of the hour after Wren, then Bud left,

was of my mother’s unrelenting efforts to ‘solve’ the troubles,

(“Time heals all wounds!”)

and of my dear father,

pacing in the doorway, hands deep in his pockets, every now and then gently saying, “Aw, Diannie”,

the name he called me as a little girl when I was sad or afraid.

 

In the end, the facts my parents knew were these:

 

1. I was in love with Bud.

2. I felt betrayed by Bud.

3. I felt betrayed by Wren.

4. I’d likely never see Wren again.

 

The facts they did not know, were these:

 

1. I had made love with Bud.

2. Bud had had some sort of intimate relations with Wren.

3. I had (in the past) had some sort of intimate relations with Wren.

4. I loved them both.

 

As it was the Friday of the Labour Day weekend, my brothers, not having seen my parents, (or me for that matter), in two months, were due to begin arriving at the cottage in the early evening. I’d had a few hours to compose myself, had taken the canoe for a long slow solo paddle, and had made it clear that I wanted no one to know anything about anything.

 

In spite of having said that, it was the appearance of Dennis that was almost too much to bear. He arrived about 8:30 as the sun was going down, saying that Arthur, Mark and John were heading up early Saturday morning. Dennis was so closely intertwined with Bud, perhaps really Bud’s best friend, and with the bond we had as twins, he intuitively sensed that something was amiss.

For starters, he expected Bud to be there.

My parents took themselves off to bed relatively early for them, exhausted I imagine from the drama of the afternoon. Dennis grabbed two beers from his cooler and motioned for me to join him at the campfire pit.

 

It was easy to talk to Dennis, as it has always been, around a campfire in the near complete darkness. 

The two beers soon became two more, and then two more, and we talked it all out – no tears, just that age-old question:  

“What do I do now?”

 

My main memory of that time around the fire was how incredibly supportive Dennis was. He took everything in stride, in his calm analytical way. He mentioned, what came as a shock to me, that Bud had shown interest in me way way back, and that he had known before phoning that I was at the cottage alone.

 This changed things for me.

 I had imagined that perhaps it was me pushing for a physical encounter that night with the skinny-dip and Bud, but as it turned out, Bud had had a plan.

 

It was well after midnight when we finally turned in. I felt calm and in control, and had a bit of a game plan.

 

That Saturday morning my brothers arrived quite early, bringing with them Ginny.

This too came as a surprise, though not, as I soon discovered, to anyone else. It didn’t take Ginny long, who knew my heart so well, to figure out that some girl-time was in order, and once she’d settled in and had a cup of coffee with my parents, we took ourselves off for a long meandering paddle.

 

Ginny was fair, as Ginny had always been.

Fair, and neutral.

She acknowledged that she had her suspicions about Bud’s feelings for me.

But that wasn’t particularly what she wanted to tackle.

She wanted to talk about Wren.

 

We landed on an island in our bay, a tiny island with a couple of pine trees and a floor covered in pine needles, a place my family called Spindle Island, a place where we had picnicked when we were small. I hadn’t lain in the pine needles of  Spindle Island for years, and the scent of pine and the view of the sky through a network of tree limbs took me back to the comfort and safety of being a small child.

 

We talked about Wren.

 

Ginny didn’t ask questions.

 It wasn’t her way.

I talked, and like a psychologist, Ginny stated back to me what she took from my ramblings.

“That last year at camp, you had a relationship with Wren.”

“You were in love with her.”

“She’s hurt you badly.”

 

 I was that angst-ridden twelve-year-old in a ragged red hoodie again.

 I heard my voice quaver, and stopped to gather myself.

Ginny moved an inch closer and enclosed my hand in hers.

“I’ll bet you know what attracted you to Wren in the first place.”

“I wonder if you can imagine anyone else being attracted to her for the same reasons.”

 

Something twigged then, a clarity, as it seemed to make perfect sense 

that Wren and Bud and I

would find the same things, the same people, attractive.

 

Perhaps what we needed was time.

Trinity Lake - Day 8 - Afternoon

 I settle in to an afternoon of art-making, content that I am on to the methodical repetitive stage with this piece.

It is what I am needing right now.

I am, thankfully, past the initial decision-making – the wrestling with ideas, forced to concentrate, to elaborate, to simplify.

That very first kernel of an idea, that creative surge, the one that hits in the wee small hours, that keeps me from sleeping, when the migraine-like aches and visual pools of colour keep swimming in my head, constantly shifting, melting into each other, nudging along the idea until it is practically painful if it is not focused upon, put down, recorded, resolved.

I have been there, all right.

When I near the point of unravelling, the art is there waiting for me.

 

And it occurs to me that this is the reality of art-making.

That first tiny idea, those initial decisions, hold the power in the creative process.

The rest is just following orders.

 

 

                                                       *

 

 

I’ve skipped lunch, as I want to keep at it. But by mid-afternoon, parched and starving, I retrieve some crackers, cheese, and trail-mix, and get a small kettle-boiling fire going.

 

I stretch out my back, aching as it is.

For three hours I’ve been kneeling over my large work – painting in warm white and titanium white acrylic, in order to tighten up the imagery, leaving only what is necessary.

What is of real importance.

I then go in with graphite and coloured pencils, drawing to add more detail to the trees,

Darks, and light wispy branches, marks which reflect my time spent here 

the last eight days.

 

It is a sort of dance I have with the artwork.

Then I walk away from it.

I, in fact, literally turn my back on it, so as to re-set my vision by staring out over the bay. 

I make tea, eat, and pace back and forth along the cliff-edge of my site. When the time comes, I prop the artwork up, steadying it against two fir trees, but still keep myself from looking directly at it. I take ten giant steps away, and turn.

 

Okay.

I immediately see several areas that need work.

It is such a different perspective, going from the flat plane parallel to the sky, to the work which now faces me as if we were in the midst of a duel.

More work to do.

 

Something is needed.

 

 I knuckle down.

This is it, I tell myself, my last three hours to work on this piece, in this place.

 

Bud. Wren. And me.

My straying thoughts.

Focus.

 

The artwork.

Is that what it needs?

Perhaps those old feelings, held like liquid in a vessel, need to pour out.

The hurt, the sadness, the heartbreaking reality of our love

needs to pour

out

in thin red tentative unsure marks. 

 

 

 

                                                    *

 

 

 

August 1974

 

In a lifetime punctuated by awkward moments, (as in any life, I suppose), that last morning of our 

3-person five-day version of the Loop has to rank as

the most awkward morning

in the history of the universe.

Or maybe beyond.

 

We barely spoke.

We just methodically went about our duties to break camp, stow gear.

At least, we barely spoke until Wren and I met face to face, me on the descent from our site to the canoe, and Wren on her way back up.

I asked her, (unhappily but with an edge of anger), what she thought she was doing.

What.

With Bud.

This set off a short, heated exchange, mostly whispered.

She looked at me sullenly and said,“You don’t own Bud, you know.”

Her last words to me.

The paddle back to the cottage – silent.

 

As Bud usually sterned, being heaviest, Wren and I typically alternated between bow and middlesman. But this day she firmly took the bow, and I felt like an unwanted child between two unhappy parents. She stopped paddling on several occasions to run her hands through the water and then bury her face momentarily in her wet hands.

I suspect she was crying; I was very nearly there myself.

I turned to look at the passing shoreline just once, and took the opportunity to glance quickly at Bud.

He was broody, silent, his eyes set deep in his brow - a look I learned in later years not to mess with.

 

Both managed to be civil with my parents, which I can only imagine took a massive effort on both of their parts. 

I, close to dissolving in tears.

I knew that my mother was on to it. She had a hawk-like eye and ability to sense even the slightest tension, and this was the tsunami of all tensions.

Wren announced her departure, her little Volkswagon loaded and ready to flee. She said “It’s been great” to the walls of the cottage 

and took herself off.

Bud followed.

I stared at my parents and felt my pooling eyes brim over.

 

When I could no longer hear Wren’s car, I went out to receive a goodbye from Bud 

as only Bud could deliver.

One in less than five words:

“I’ll call you.”

Trinity Lake - Day 8 - Morning

 

Love, Poem 8: Proof

That I did always love
I bring thee Proof
That till I loved
I never lived-enough-

-Emily Dickinson


Luckily, no foul weather through the night.

My fire - out.
My artwork - wet from the dew, but otherwise undisturbed.
My journal, pens, pastels, paints - sodden but salvageable.

I slept like a baby in the arms of a loving parent, all through the night. My head, aching slightly, but not enough to spoil the euphoria of yesterday. I make my way into the tent, find my water-bottle and drink thirstily.

I leave the art materials where they lie, so as to let the sun do its work.
I get a good breakfast fire going and boil a much needed kettle.
And retrieve from the treetop kitchen  - Day 8 Breakfast.

As tomorrow will completely be occupied with packing up and moving out, this is my last day to work. I will fill my day with art, and then in the late afternoon I will take apart my large artwork - dismantle the frame, roll the canvas, stow it in the canoe,
ready for my return trip to civilization, the landing,
and Bud.


                                                             *

In the late morning, I stand to straighten out my stiff back and shoulders. It is a gorgeous day, the rock sun-warmed, the air still. I slip on my Converse and pick my way down toward the canoe.
Perhaps a short paddle before lunch.
I paddle to 'Flint's Pointer', easily visible in the still water, green and eerie, pointing to where I've been. 

And survived.

And along to where the cedar woods drop down to the rocky shore, the spot where my stretcher poles were cut.
I circle around the bay and back along the opposite shoreline, nosing gently through a shallow rocky inlet, the water crystal clear, so warm for September.
I loop the painter round a rock, strip off and slipping into the water, float on my back and gently propel myself out of the shadows and into the sun.
To think about the last eight days.

Not having any mirror but the lake, I can only assume that I am tanned and weathered. My legs are criss-crossed with scratches, standard canoe trip legs.
My one black fingernail, with a white moon-shaped dent in it, a reminder of my first day on my own.
Coming through my narrow aisle of pain.
My hands, rough and blackened from woodfire cooking.
My hair, a greyish-white mop, a tangle held back from my face with an elastic. (God knows what that looks like.)
My old lady breasts, tanned.

I dip down underwater to the pebbled floor of the lake.
As I reach to touch the algae covered stones, disturbing the bottom, I watch the cloud of murky water rise upward.


                                                           *

August 1974

I found the cliff, for all my thinking that I wouldn't be able to. No sign post or any kind of markings anymore, but we kept to the shoreline and the opening to the bay appeared. 
My heart sank.
The tent site at the cliff is lovely, and the weather cooperated. Bud and Wren literally spent hours jumping from the cliff and floating in the warm still waters. 
I spent the time drawing them.
Not prepared to revisit my terrors of the past, I kept away from the cliff itself. 
Neither of them pushed. 

Neither of them , in fact, seemed to notice.

I was beginning to feel that I wasn't really there at all.

I started in on the wine long before either of them.
When the light starting to fade, and the three of us were in one place,

I relaxed a little as we moved into out evening ritual.
However I wasn't at my best. 
The fact that the two of them were enjoying so heartily, intimately, the one place that haunted me on Trinity Lake, I found difficult to watch.

That, and for the first time, I felt awkward.

Like I wasn't needed at all on this our last night.

As soon as darkness fell, I crawled into the tent.

As I was the first one in, I was at the far end. 

I woke some hours later, to find neither Bud nor Wren there.

Not only not there, but not around the now cold, dark firepit either.

I wanted to avoid thinking what this meant. I rolled over, pulled the sleeping-bag firmly over my head, and fell eventually into a fitful sleep.

I woke again as the world was just starting to lighten. There they were, asleep next to me, just as things had been the entire trip as the first soft grey light filtered into our tent, and the shapes of the two people I loved most in the world slowly became visible.
Not wanting to rouse, or speak, or touch, or make eye contact with either of them, I crawled over their feet.

And out.

Before either of them was up and about, I slipped into the water below the cliff.
Trying not to think,
I dipped down underwater to the pebbled floor of the lake.
As I reached to touch the algae covered stones, disturbing the bottom, I watched the cloud of murky water rise upward.