Does anyone paint a scene sans brush better than Wright Thompson?
The islanders came to him one by one, let him know he’d always have a home here. The folks of Daufuskie are insular, but they had accepted Patrick as one of their own. One longtimer cried when she tried to tell him what he’s meant. Another came face-to-face with Patrick and could not speak. There were no words.
Two days later, Patrick Ford climbed onto a boat, the bow pointed into a stable if predictable future. The prop churned out a long carpet of green bubbles, waving slightly, a thin line connecting him to a dock on the island he once called home. As he rode toward land, the bubbles sank. The wake slowly disappeared, as if it had never been there at all.
