Staring at my computer screen. Gone. The weekend in Deception Pass. The New Year turning over and me and Daniel sleeping in a dome of nylon, gunshots ringing through the forest at midnight. Trees swirling above, winds whipping up over the ridge.

An owl hunted at dusk, screeching an eerie pursuit. I shivered, pulled closer to the boot-licking fire. Safe by the fire, safe by Daniel, warmdryhappycampfire, this.is.it.

Pictures gone: mushrooms, forest paths, him on the shore, us in the rain, the geometrics of the bridge, our campsite, the steel water tap on the walk to the bathroom. And a series of Daniel, softly lit in my cottage kitchen, the progression of the effects of a bottle of Pinot Noir. Face softens, body leans into the wall, hands gesture more freely. The bottle on the table decreases in volume to empty.

I can let them go, the pictures. They are still in my head. The wind-swept gusts of rain atop Goose Bluff, arbutus twisting from rocky cliffs above the Puget Sound, a reflected evening sky on Cranberry Lake.

To be taken care of? Yes, it is a part of love. We stand beside each other looking into a hollowed pit in the forests of Belcarra. History. Oil tank? Septic tank? Pioneer's cabin? Story upon story, as to why that rectagular-shaped excavation exists. There are bricks! Dig a brick from the dirt, is there a date stamped on it? It is this multiplication of brains, this addition of neurons, that generates a mind more fascinating than just one alone.