Page 80 of On Fire Island
“I’m heading home too; Bea has something important to talk to me about. I have no clue what.”
Ben had a clue. Shep was in for some surprise. Somewhere out there was a dark-haired young woman who may even be a home run hitter like her grandfather.
“Well, I’m gonna go in and work on my new book!”
They both patted him on the back for encouragement before all going their separate ways.
As Ben headed up our walk I called out to him, “Ben, wait!”
The game ball fell from his mitt and rolled back down the walk.
I am the wind, I thought again, this time truly believing it.
He came to retrieve the ball. As he stood on the sidewalk, I wrapped my arms around his waist and whispered in his ear.
“It’s time for me to go.”
I could feel an energy, almost a bolt of electricity, leave my body and enter his. It sent a chill up his spine. He quivered as it did.
He felt it. He felt me. I hoped he knew.
Tears filled his eyes, big tears, before pouring down his face.
He knew. He most definitely knew.
“I’ll carry you with me always,” he said.
“I’ll carry you with me always,” I said.
We stood as one for a minute more, breathing in the moment. It would never feel like it was time to go, but I knew I had to. I took a step back, and a small sigh escaped Ben’s lips. After a moment he turned and headed back home without me.
The Love Shack sign swayed from left to right and left to right as the gate swung closed. I stood there for a beat, staring at the words. Though their meaning had changed during this, my last full summer on Fire Island, they may never have rung more true.
Part Three
What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.
—RICHARD BACH,
Illusions: The Adventures of a ReluctantMessiah
forty-two
On Fire Island
Ben kicked off his cleats and splashed some cold water on his face. The house was quiet, and after a full summer of the opposite, it felt like just what he needed. He poured a second cup of coffee, sat down on the lanai, and opened up his iPad. His eyes widened at the sight of the blank page in front of him. He couldn’t type fast enough.
He wished it would be as easy to write the following chapter in his life as it would to write this story, but maybe he had to go backward before he could go forward. He stretched out his fingers on the keyboard and typed the title of his next and final book.
On Fire Island
by
Benjamin Morse
And began.
Prologue
