My father must have heard me walking past his bedroom that late afternoon. He often went to his room before dinner. I assumed he was awake probably watching TV or reading the newspaper, something hardly anyone did anymore, but he did.
He said through the closed door, “I’m still breathing.”
“I’m going out for a bit. I’m walking down to the lake,” I said. I stood listening for a reply. There was none. I stayed a few more minutes not making a sound. Then I heard him mumble something to himself in a quiet, monotone voice. All I could hear was “thank you” said twice, but I didn’t think he was talking to me.

She held the book in her hands, completely overwhelmed with a mix of jubilation and disbelief. It was like a dream, but the book was very real, the cold, smooth feel of its beautiful hardcover against her palms. A poetry chapbook, nature themed, with the author’s name printed beneath the illustration of a tree by the riverside. Annemarie stared down at the name, reading it repeatedly while wiping away tears of joy. Her name. Her book. A collection of poems by Annemarie Wilder.