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It’s so ridiculously out of place that glancing at it startles me for a moment. I pick it up and hold it for a long while. Once I’m dead, there will be no one to remember my parents. Not the way I remember them. There will be no one to tell what happened. I can’t beat the wilderness. Not me, a city kid with a bad leg who’s been camping a half dozen times in her life, and never without flushing toilets within a hundred yards.
But I can write it all down. That, I can do.
I tear open the pack of pens and grab one at random. I open the notebook to the first page. And I start to write.
I’VE CAUGHT UPto myself, then.
Of course, it’s been days since the storm. Even writing every spare minute I’ve found, it’s taken me a long time to get it all down. And I can tell you what’s happened when I haven’t been writing, how I’ve stayed alive these few extra days.
But I can’t keep avoiding the one thing that made me start writing. It’s time, now, to tell you about the moment when before became after. When everything fell apart.
This is how my father died.
