If this is advice, let it be this small: write it down. Put your name on the thing you love. Tell the people who love you how to love you back.
And when someone tests the doorknob with a smile that calls itself family, let the house answer first. A clear alarm isn’t cruel; it’s honest. It says: not like that.
Try again. Or don’t. I used to think endings were doors that slam.
They can be. But most of them are just rooms that finally get quiet. In that quiet you can hear the ocean, and yourself, and the sound of keys that no longer fit—harmless now, small, almost musical.
The tide keeps its time. So do I. The porch light warms the steps.
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The door is locked. The welcome is real. Knock the right way.
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