Michelle McCormick

“It still feels like a miracle,” I said to Frank this morning as I sipped my tea and stared across the sparkling water of Rich Passage, a section of Puget Sound that runs between our new island home and the distant shore of mainland Washington.

It’s been seven months since we made the leap to a new state, a new home and the myriad discoveries of island life. The sense of mystery and wonder is still palpable. Nearly every day, one of us exclaims, “We live here!” or “This is our home!” as if saying it a thousand times will somehow normalize it.

Somewhere in the last ten years I turned into a voracious reader. I’ve always loved storytelling, especially in visual media such as films, television series, and even dance. But lately, I just can’t seem to get enough of books. Each one is its own universe, an invitation to activate my imagination and perceive life through a completely different lens. Some books are fast food, enjoyed for a moment and forgotten. Others leave an indelible mark, shaping me in ways it might take years to fully understand.