I don't want to be here

There was this moment when I was at the Finnerties, standing at the site where my dad and Michael almost accidentally burned the damn island down, and I was looking out over the ocean towards Vancouver Island and this is what happened: the sun was warming me and the winds were buffeted by the natural little alcove I was in and I could hear the distant rustling and chirping of birds and the incessant, repetitive chord struck by an orchestra of crickets, and I could smell the sweet, salty, loamy scent of dried brush and grass and the gnarled Juniper trees and the ocean and the platinum blonde logs that had washed up and jumbled in the bay, and some ducks sailed by and a seal popped his head up to see what I was doing and it was still. The water was almost glassy. And it was peaceful. There was nothing. There was nothing but the gentle sting of the salt water in some random scrapes around my ankles, and my warm skin, and my breath going in and out, and the memories of my dad.
My brother and I had all day, all the time in the world, the vast expanse of the sky and the ocean and time.