What happened is not the story. What came after is.

There was a winter I spent on my back. The ceiling was the whole world, and a window, foreshortened at its edge, was the only clock. Light crossed it. That was a day.

At the lowest point there was a hand, and it was hers. I remember it more clearly than anything from the months on either side of it.

Then there were walks. Short, then less short. Spring, summer, autumn, winter, and each morning a band of gold came back to the horizon as if it had somewhere to be.

I learned to leave before the light and to be standing at the water when it arrived. I still do. Everything this house makes was found on those walks, one thing at a time, and carried home.