It was real and I repent, all those messages you sent were clear as day, but in the night, oh I couldn't get it right.

This is for you, little one.

This is one of those stories without a fairy-tale ending. It's a story where not everyone ends up happy and smiling and content. It's a story about two little girls who didn't get to choose an ending, but who ended up ok nonetheless. This is what I remember from a time when we were both young, and I hope this helps you to remember, too.
We lived in a forest where the trees were bigger than anything we could imagine. Thick fingers of bark pushing up out of the earthy, ink-coloured belly of the Queen Charlotte Islands. When I hugged a tree my arms formed so shallow an arc it was almost a straight line. The skin of the tree felt like sharp rock but sounded hollow when stroked by my tiny hands. When I looked up the wet air shone like snow in the thin bands of sunlight bleeding through the cap of green needles. On this particular day, the forest was wet after a large downpour and the smell of cedar was dizzying. I picked a path through the undergrowth in bright yellow gumboots, fingers of ferns painting my wool sweater with beads of dew. Every so often I looked back through the mass of trees and weaved my head back and forth for a glimpse of the trailer. A flash of corrugated metal winked at me from a distance. If I could see the trailer then I wasn't lost. If Mom couldn't see me then I was in trouble, but Mom couldn't see me regardless because she was inside. Turning away, I spotted my rain coat making a sickly-looking blotch on the forest floor. I ran to it and put it on, flapping the arms like a bird until all the maple keys slid off. Satisfied in finding the motivation for my trek, I hopped back towards the clearing surrounding our home, a drooping clothesline, and a haphazard array of muddied toys. I was glad to be out of the woods, they always gave me an uneasy sense of unwelcome. Their density was suffocating. Mom's friend once told me the woods didn't belong to us, they belonged to the spirits. My fear was cast aside when I reached the side of the trailer. There, propped atop a mound of earth lay a large, bone-coloured chunk of driftwood. It was my Luck Dragon and I had decorated him with small shells; glossy, paper-thin feathers; and rocks like jewels massaged smooth by the ocean's hands. The driftwood was warped into tunnels and pockets where, when poked by my fingers, clusters of sow-bugs would waddle apart like tiny shields with centipede legs. Sockets in the head of my Dragon housed fiddleheads curled like snails, one on either side, as eyes. I swung a leg over my Dragon's back and pulled myself up using a sinewy knot of wood. I flung my arms around the beast's neck, squeezing my eyes shut and riding high.... up above the trailer, up above the trees, rising up through fog so thick you could drink it like a grey milkshake. If I was brave enough to look down I would see a stone-blue ocean, razor-sharp against the shore and bleeding white onto a lick of sand. Bleached rocks rimmed the edge of a waxed-green shoreline freckled sparsely by houses. I could ride my Luck Dragon for hours if I wanted, but Mom's voice always pulled me back to Earth and by the time my eyes opened I was in our back yard. I climbed down from my ride and landed in the spongy grass; my Dragon turned back into wood. I admired the spray of mud on my gumboots, stalling. I knew I had at least a few minute's leeway with Mom. I let her call twice more before running around to the front door.
"Dinner's ready," she smiled. She stood and watched me walk towards her, her hand braced in the door frame, her wild hair lit like gold from the light behind her. I walked up three steps to her and she cupped my damp hair against my cold, pink cheek.
"Have fun?" Her voice rolled out like honey and sparks. Smooth, viscous tones crackling with a smoker's rasp. I bobbed my head and fell forward into her hug. She was soft but her clothes were flecked with sharp bits of paint. I pushed her gently inside and let the screen door clatter shut behind us. Off came my rain jacket, collapsing on the linoleum like the skin of a sea creature. Mom pulled off my boots and I followed her into the living room in wet socks, rolling the damp cotton ends under my toes. The pull-out couch in the living room was as a bed and in the middle sat you, fingering a corner of a striped flannel blanket. I loved you. I adored your baby-soft skin and halo of brown curls. I also ignored you at time because, being nineteen months younger than me, you weren't aware of the world of Dragons, flying, and forest spirits. I hadn't thought to show you these things yet. I also liked knowing things that were only mine to know.
Mom brought us dinner. I balanced my bowl on a pillow nestled in my lap while you lay on your stomach, carefully spooning each morsel into your puckered baby-mouth. You turned to smile at me. As long as you were happy, the rest of my world was bright.