My sister surprised me and came to Kirkwall two weeks early, loaded with goodies from home like a female Santa Claus, to help me get in the spirit of the festival, she said, although it’s more likely mom sent her to check up on me and provide her with the precious details she thinks I don’t want to share.

“Where is my instrument, Denise?”

“Oh,” she mocked. “You wanted that? Won’t your dead crush disapprove of such frivolities?”

I see you dancing around the fire, Fiona, giddy like a child, and carefree. What on earth gave you that lightness of being when your life was so dark and perilous?

“No,” I replied. “No, she would not. Give!”

She reached into her duffle bag and pulled out my ukulele by the sound hole, all tangled up in a knotted mess of cables and undergarments that instantly elevated my blood pressure.

“How could you shove it in your bag like that? It’s a miracle it got here in one piece! I’m starting to remember why I never let you touch my stuff!”

“Relax, it’s a ukulele, not the Holy Grail,” she faked giving it to me and quickly pulled it back. “You don’t get it unless you promise me you’ll play it at the festival.”

“Denise, I only know ‘Over the Rainbow’ and I’m not playing that.”