She sat with her journal on a dirt floor in a grimy old shed by the seashore, the spot her father sat until his last day, whittling figures in wood, spitting in the corner behind the door.She wrote a ribbon of bright memories until the ribbon’s colors faded into black, then shut the book, turned her back on the place and closed the door.The wind blew, riffling the sea, whirling little dark wheels of spray across the surface: tensions, eddies, unanswered questions, confusion. The old man never gave her enough to satisfy a child’s needs for Love and the freedom to grow free — but he left her something else, something darker, older: like a brier knot, like a leather cord, like smoke.She had smelled it in his clothes as she packed them away. She sensed it in his tools that were scattered on the floor. She saw it in an old picture of her sitting on his lap, and in a recent one of him sitting alone on a stone by his beloved sea.It was something she couldn’t name, something more flame then thought, more spirit than idea. She looked into the sky and wished he had said it in his own words so she could write them down, memorize them, hold them like sharp cut diamonds in her heart. But he said it in a thousand other ways, in wrinkles, in glances; in the way he smiled, in the color of his hair, in the gesture of his hand.He wrote it into her bones and she knew her bones would hold it and sing it in a language she would never understand… nor forget.