In frigid darkness I boarded the 2:00 AM shuttle to SeaTac airport, traveling lightly with a few outfits, my laptop and a book. I had mailed clothing and gifts and hoped they would be waiting for me at the cottage when I arrived. My mind wandered, exposing snippets of conversations from our most recent group therapy session. Gary had joined
Chocolate. I tasted, then heard chocolate. “Are you sleeping? You never sleep.” The icy phone carried the buttery tones to my ear as my brain discovered the hand connected to my arm. It was James. Jolted awake, I summoned a groggy reply, “How’s your tomorrow?” He almost laughed and my skin warmed at the sound of his smile. Celeste
A pair of sneakers sent me spiraling into darkness. I was tying my shoes and briefly wondered if I would need boots at the cottage this time of year. I paused, tangled in ties, and collapsed on the hardwood entry floor. Each year of pain then took its turn wrenching my body and flooding my face. I curled fisted fingers into my untidy hair
I had never been to the cottage in winter and my first thought was to wonder if the pond would be frozen. I was not ready to find meaning in his brief note. There was a part of me that rebelled against the idea of being summoned like this, without a phone call or explanation. I resented his assumption I would put my life on hold. I read the
He left the country before I completed my program. His wife, a painter of shadows, craved a more ethereal setting for inspiration. They did not want to raise their children in the California sunlight and school system. I was grateful he told me before the university announced his resignation, and I was not entirely surprised by the decision.
There was a letter waiting for me when I arrived home Friday evening. I casually tossed the pile of mail on the counter and didn’t remember it until Saturday morning. When it slipped from the stack of bills and advertisements, I immediately knew the origin. I held it gently, tracing my name on the front in soft, yet confident script.
I finished the book, entranced by the personal meaning I gathered from the story. He wrote with passion, and I understood why he had become successful, if not why that success led him to feel guilty for his loss. He sought treatment for grief, but what he perceived of as grief, seemed to me to be his muse. The book gave no direct detail of
On Monday morning, I peeked into Lenore’s office. She inhabited the sunroom behind the kitchen, and it suited her well. She displayed her oil paintings on the wall that used to be on the outside of the house. Each of our spaces seemed to be an extension of ourselves, creating an environment that felt more natural than a typical office or
I did not recognize him the next time we met. By then, my partners had returned and we were settling back into our Saturday morning baking meetings. When we had first remodeled the bungalow, the contractor suggested we turn the dining area and kitchen into useable office space. We unanimously rejected his plans, choosing instead to preserve
Rich tones chimed from the cathedral down the street, attracting worshipers to the convenient seven o’clock midnight mass. I had developed a love of ceremony as a young graduate student, trailing my mentor from service to service. At first I had simply sought his praise for my enthusiasm. After I had secured his attention, I began to
