If you drive to the south east corner of Ruckles Park on Salt Spring Island, leave your car and follow the ocean-side trail to the right, you come to a shore point from which it seems you are at the edge, the very end, of our earth. Eagles and loons mix there, a sleek seal head pops up, island waters converge in a criss-cross, rolling heavy only in ferry wakes, and the sky is bent. It is a place of suicides and weddings, bones, feathers, and broken shells. It is a place for mermaids or lost seamen. Go there when you don’t know what you need to know, but are desperate for the unknown word. Go there when the headlines have wrapped around your own head like a too tight turban. Go there when your growing son looks at you with unmasked hatred. Go there when your hands have forgotten the meaning of tomorrow. Sit there, and when you leave, understand that the Blue Point tucks itself under your feet. Each moment the last moment, each place the last place.