Iona

Returned alone for the longest nights of the year. Fevered in a hostel with windows full of roil. Kept

company with graybluegray and scalding tea. Fever broke and I took the two-track road to the abbey, where

they did not want me. Long walk back to the fire where I was welcome. In blew a photographer dressed like

Amelia Earhart, in billowing white scarf and brown leather jacket. He was in want of a hillwalking

companion. Hiking with a photographer is a stilted thing. He got every angle of every croft and crest,

windswept and grayscale. I know because he sent a handbound portfolio to my father’s house, having talked

the innkeeper out of my address. In the package, a hopeful note, to which I never replied. Girls can be cruel,

however necessarily. As I recall, he was handsome, kind, and Welsh. But I only wanted myself for myself, or

someone else.