The first months that I was on the island were clear in many ways – the changing quality of light, salt tang of sea air, grasses flattened by wind, then bending in summer heat. The children went barefoot, Frieda herding her little pack of sheep, Jeppe always with a stick in his hand, hacking away at the brush, rocks, anything he could, really. Even things I tried to ignore – the way the hairs on Carl’s forearm lightened over the course of the summer, their glint when they caught light, the sinew of his muscles moving beneath his skin. Don’t look, I told myself, and convinced myself that I had hardly glanced. Then, autumn set in.
How could the disappearing light be a surprise every year? Each morning, I woke to less light until there was none and I felt shocked, slighted by the darkness. I
