I am hanging on by a thread.

Something is coming.

Not in a dramatic, thunderclap sort of way.  No.  This is quieter.  More sinister.

Confidence got the best of me, and instead of stepping off the curb like a cautious, aging adult, I did a little hop. A jaunty exit.

I’m highly skilled. Award-winning, even. No one has formally acknowledged it, but still.

The hardest part of living on this island is knowing I will not stay.

A new phase of island life has begun: The High Chair.

This is where the youngest inhabitant begins sampling local cuisine.

The greatest compliment you can give the eight-year-old in this season is that her baby sister looks just like her.

I attempted a shower.
A luxury. A gamble. A move that suggests confidence. Everything is easier with the second baby.
Wrong.

During my first stay on the island, I survived almost entirely on peanut butter sandwiches.

This was not a visit. This was a full day deployment. He woke here. He stayed.

The island has felt safer lately.

Isolating, yes. Repetitive. Crumb-covered. But safe.

I have ventured back into civilization. It has been one full year since my last haircut. This is not a style choice. This is historical evidence.

I am weary. Milk-stained. Spiritually defeated. The day has taken much from me. Then… I hear it.

The door.

I only know it’s morning because the sun keeps showing up, faithful and unconcerned with how little I slept.