Shaw Island

We are in some new time zone, in a place with very different light patterns because of the thick tall trees surrounding the house, a house with different internal rhythms than ours, too, slow and sweet rhythms, quieter, all of us gathered around the wood stove. I have no idea what time it is, which is a fine fine fine fine fine thing.

This morning, we woke slowly and stayed in bed to think and drift until we heard the others rouse. While Buni made scones, we all talked for a long time about family stuff, me going step-by-step through where all my brothers and sisters are now which also means talking about the nieces and nephews and crossing the continent back and forth and going back a few decades sometimes to fill in backstory, surprising that we need to do that given how far back we go together. Brian and Buni didn't know about Andrew's death, for example, which ties into why my father wants to move to San Diego now, and so I slipped back into the memories I have from being three and surrounded by very odd and intense events involving crying adults, a turquoise-and-white Chevy, and one of the most striking cemeteries on the planet.

We walked out later in the morning to Broken Point, through cedars, moss, and damp and past several new-to-us kinds of ducks out on the various views of the sound. There was a sea otter hanging out among what might have been buffleheads, and the ferry passed.

We drove into the little store at the ferry dock to get bread, wine, and the last bits of presents.

We wrapped the gifts, and Brian has made cherry pies. Buni is reading, with spotted Bindi all wrapped up around her.

Before that, though, Buni showed me her workroom. I don't know what Buni calls what she does, really. She goes to elementary schools and helps children perform stories. She adapts stories from books, makes costumes, and prepares relaxed scripts that get the children dancing and moving and singing and adding words and making guesses about what happens next, and that is how they tell the story to themselves. Any seven-year-old would want to wake up forever in Buni's workroom. It is full of sly-looking and jolly marionettes of all sized and kinds, and billowy dragon costumes and tails and snouts. There are too many capes too count, made of shiny fabrics and ribbons, and floating thunderstorm costumes and scepters, velvety hats. There are pinks and greens, silky and shiny, everything ordered and yet floating into everything else, and lots of tinkly and throaty musical instruments. I wanted to fall asleep in the soft colors and glints. I wanted to roll up in it all and listen to Buni tell her stories.