Abraham ran a pair of weather-worn fingers through his under-lip bristles, his ‘tickler’ as he late wife Ophelia had called it, eyes front facing. The seas were wicked. Tense and brimming with restless vigor. It would storm this day, he knew that for a god-given fact.

The railing, long since needing proper maintenance, the sort he alone could not provide from the confines of this island, whined in the winds low gusts. Abraham ran a hand over it, as if reassuring.

He found his way inside for the sake of his would-be escapee hat. His chores took longer than normal for a few reasons; the brewing storm not the least of them. Just keeping the window guards fastened was an effort. But more than that, Abe was distracted. His mind drifted far away back toward home.

He saw the wooden doorway and the handmade postbox which received his checks every month. Inside he pictured their faces. His daughter would have aged some, he knew this but he dared not imagine how she may have changed. The face in his minds eye was the same as the last he’d seen her. His wife too.

He smiled despite it all; the distance, the solitude. And outside the storm still brewed.