When I finally made it to the lake, it was eighty-two degrees.
Once I was sure no one was around, I changed into my swimsuit with a practiced flourish and tiptoed down the little wooden pier.
I’m not much of a drinker, but there were nights when my girlfriends and I—and a few boys from town—would sneak down here with a cooler of cheap beer and end up skinny dipping under the moon.
Some of those friends are leaving in a few weeks, scattering across the country for college. It’s strange to think about.
Mistvale has a way of finding its way into your heart. Not because it keeps people here, but because it quietly becomes part of who they are. Even after you leave, you carry it with you.
I keep thinking about Dad.
It’s not that I’m worried about him. Daniel Griffin is probably the most resourceful person I’ve ever known. If the power went out for a week, he’d somehow have the lights back on before the utility company figured out what happened.
I just don’t like the thought of him coming home to an empty house.
I don’t think grief ever really leaves. It just becomes another person sitting quietly at the table with you. Most days you hardly notice it’s there. Other days, it asks you to remember.
Woodward is only five hours away. It’s not like I’m disappearing to Alaska.
I’ll miss knowing every back road and every trail without needing a map.
Sometimes I wonder if growing up is really just learning to love new places without loving the old ones any less.