Slowly the car began to turn from him, toward the road that would take her back totown. Leaving‐‐she was leaving!‐and Noah felt dizzy at the sight. Edging forward..,past him now...

She waved one last time without smiling before she began to accelerate, and hewaved back weakly. "Don't go!" he wanted to shout as the car moved farther away.

But he didn't say anything, and a minute later the car was gone and the onlyremaining signs of her were the tracks that her car had left behind.

He stood there without moving for a long time. As quickly as she had come, she wasgone. Forever this time. Forever. He closed his eyes then and watched her leaveonce more, her car moving steadily away from him, taking his heart with her.

But, like her mother, he realized sadly, she never looked back.

Letter from yesterday

Diving with tears in her eyes was difficult, but she went on anyway, hoping thatinstinct would take her back to the inn. She kept the window rolled down, thinkingthe fresh air might help clear her mind, but it didn't seem to help. Nothing wouldhelp.

She was tired, and she wondered if she would have the energy she needed to talk toLon. And what was she going to say? She still had no idea but hoped that somethingwould come to her when the time came. It would have to.

By the time she reached the drawbridge that led to Front Street, she had herself alittle more under control. Not completely, but well enough, she thought, to talk toLon. At least she hoped so. Traffic was light, and she had time to watch strangersgoing about their business as she drove through New Bern. At a gas station, amechanic was looking under the hood of a new automobile while a man, presumablyits owner, stood beside him. Two women were pushing baby carriages just outsideHoffman‐Lane, chatting between themselves while they windowshopped. In front ofHearns Jewelers, a well‐dressed man walked briskly, carrying a briefcase.

She made another turn and saw a young man unloading groceries from a truck thatblocked part of the street. Something about the way he held himself, or the way hemoved, reminded her of Noah harvesting crabs at the end of the dock.

She saw the inn just up the street while she was stopped at a red light. She took adeep breath when the light turned green and drove slowly until she reached theparking lot that the inn shared with a couple of other businesses. She turned inand saw Lon's car sitting in the first spot. Although the one next to it was open,she passed it and picked a spot a little farther from the entrance.

She turned the key, and the engine stopped promptly. Next she reached into theglove compartment for a mirror and brush, finding both sitting on top of a map ofNorth Carolina. Looking at herself, she saw her eyes were still red and puffy. Likeyesterday after the rain, as she examined her reflection she was sorry she didn't haveany makeup, though she doubted it would help much now. She tried pulling her hairback on one side, tried both sides, then finally gave up.

She reached for her pocketbook, opened it, and once again looked at the article thathad brought her here. So much had happened since then; it was hard to believe it hadbeen only three weeks. It felt impossible to her that she had arrived only the daybefore yesterday. It seemed like a lifetime since her dinner with Noah. Starlingschirped in the trees around her. The clouds had begun to break up now, and Alliecould see blue in between patches of white. The sun was still shaded, but she knew itwould only be a matter of time. It was going to be a beautiful day. It was the kind ofday she would have liked to spend with Noah, and as she was thinking about him, sheremembered the letters her mother had given her and reached for them.

She untied the packet and found the first letter he had written her. She began toopen it, then stopped because she could imagine what was in it. Something simple,no doubt‐‐things he'd done, memories of the summer, perhaps some questions. Afterall, he probably expected an answer from her. Instead she reached for the last letterhe'd written, the one on the bottom of the stack. The good‐bye letter. This oneinterested her far more than the others. How had he said it? How would she have saidit?

The envelope was thin. One, maybe two pages. Whatever he had written wasn't toolong. First, she turned it over and checked the back. No name, just a street address inNew Jersey. She held her breath as she used her fingernail to pry it open. Unfoldingit, she saw it was dated March 1935. Two and a half years without a reply. Sheimagined him sitting at an old desk, crafting the letter, somehow knowing this wasthe end, and she saw what she thought were tearstains on the paper. Probably justher imagination.

She straightened the page and began to read in the soft white sunlight that shonethrough the window.

My dearest Allie,

I don't know what to say anymore except that ! couldn't sleep last night because Iknew that it is over between us. It is a different feeling for me, one that I neverexpected, but looking back, I suppose it couldn't have ended another way. You and Iwere different. We came from different worlds, and yet you were the one who taughtme the value of love. You showed me what it was like to care for another,and I am abetter man because of it. I don't want you to ever forget that.

I am not bitter because of what has happened. On the contrary. I am secure inknowing that what we had was real, and I am happy we were able to come togetherfor even a short period of time. And if, in some distant place in the future, we seeeach other in our new lives, I will smile at you with joy, and remember how we spenta summer beneath the trees, learning from each other and growing in love. Andmaybe, for a brief moment, you'll feel it too, and you'll smile back, and savor thememories we will always share together. I love you, Allie.

Noah

She read the letter again, more slowly this time, then read it a third time before sheput it back into the envelope. Once more, she imagined him writing it, and for amoment she debated reading another, but she knew she couldn't delay any longer.

Lon was waiting for her. Her legs felt weak as she stepped out of the car. She pausedand took a deep breath, and as she started across the parking lot, she realized shestill wasn't sure what she was going to say to him.

And the answer didn't finally come until she reached the door and opened it and sawLon standing in the lobby.

The story ends there, so I close the notebook, remove my glasses, and wipe my eyes.

They are tired and bloodshot, but they have not failed me so far. They will soon, Iam sure. Neither they nor I can go on forever. I look to her now that I have finished,but she does not look back. Instead she is staring out the window at the courtyard,where friends and family meet.

My eyes follow hers, and we watch it together. In all these years the daily pattern hasnot changed. Every morning, an hour after breakfast, they begin to arrive. Youngadults, alone or with family, come to visit those who live here. They bringphotographs and gifts and either sit on the benches or stroll along the tree‐linedpaths designed to give a sense of nature. Some will stay for the day, but most leaveafter a few hours, and when they do, I always feel sadness for those they've leftbehind.

I wonder sometimes what my friends think as they see their loved ones driving off,but I know it's not my business. And I do not ever ask them because I've learned thatwe're all entitled to have our secrets. But soon, I will tell you some of mine. I place thenotebook and magnifier on the table beside me, feeling the ache in my bones as I doso, and I realize once again how cold my body is. Even reading in the morning sundoes nothing to help it. This does not surprise me anymore, though, for my bodymakes its own rules these days.

I'm not completely unfortunate, however. The people who work here know me andmy faults and do their best to make me more comfortable. They have left me hot teaon the end table, and I reach for it with both hands. It is an effort to pour a cup, but Ido so because the tea is needed to warm me and I think the exertion will keep mefrom completely rusting away. But I am rusted now, no doubt about it. Rusted as ajunked car twenty years in the Everglades.

I have read to her this morning, as I do every morning, because it is something I mustdo. Not for duty‐‐although I suppose a case could be made for this‐‐but for another,more romantic, reason. I wish I could explain it more fully right now, but it's still early,and talking about romance isn't really possible before lunch anymore, at least not forme. Besides, I have no idea how it's going to turn out, and to be honest, I'd rather notget my hopes up.

We spend each and every day together now, but our nights are spent alone. Thedoctors tell me that I'm not allowed to see her after dark. I understand the reasonscompletely, and though I agree with them, I sometimes break the rules. Late at nightwhen my mood is right, I will sneak from my room and go to hers and watch her whileshe sleeps.

Of this she knows nothing. I'll come in and see her breathe and know that had it notbeen for her, I would never have married. And when I look at her face, a face I knowbetter than my own, ! know that I have meant as much or more to her. And thatmeans more to me than I could ever hope to explain.

Sometimes, when I am standing there, I think about how lucky I am to have beenmarried to her for almost forty‐nine years. Next month it will be that long. She heard

.me snore for the first forty‐five, but since then we have slept in separate rooms. Ido not sleep well without her. I toss and turn and yearn for her warmth and liethere most of the night, eyes open wide, watching the shadows dance across theceilings like tumbleweeds rolling across the desert. I sleep two hours if I am lucky,and still I wake before dawn. This makes no sense to me.

Soon, this will all be over. I know this. She does not. The entries in my diary havebecome shorter and take little time to write.

I keep them simple now, since most of my days are the same. But tonight I think Iwill copy a poem that one of the nurses found for me and thought I would enjoy. Itgoes like this:

I never was struck before that hour With love so sudden and so sweet, Herface it bloomed like a sweet flower And stole my heart away complete.

Because our evenings are our own, I have been asked to visit the others. Usually I do,for I am the reader and I am needed, or so I am told. I walk the halls and choose whereto go because I am too old to devote myself to a schedule, but deep down I alwaysknow who needs me. They are my friends, and when I push open their doors, I seerooms that look like mine, always semi darkened, illuminated only by the lights of

Wheel of Fortune and Vanna's* teeth. The furniture is the same for everyone, and theTVs blare because no one can hear well anymore.

Men or women, they smile at me when I enter and speak in whispers as they turn offtheir sets. "I'm so glad you've come," they say, and then they ask about my wife.

Sometimes I tell them. I might tell them of her sweetness and her charm and describehow she taught me to see the world for the beautiful place it is. Or I tell them of ourearly years together and explain how we had all we needed when we held each otherunder starry southern skies. On special occasions I whisper of our adventurestogether, of art shows in New York and Paris or the rave reviews from critics writingin languages I do not understand. Mostly, though, I smile and I tell them that she isthe same, and they turn from me, for I know they do not want me to see their faces.

It reminds them of their own mortality. So I sit with them and read to lessen theirfears.

Be composed‐‐be at ease with me... Not till the sun excludes you do I exclude you,Nottill the waters refuse to glisten for you and the leaves to rustle for you, do my wordsrefuse to glisten and rustle for you. And I read, to let them know who I am. I wanderall night in my vision,... Bending with open eyes over the shut eyes of sleepers,Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill‐assorted, contradictory, Pausing, gazing,bending, and stopping.

If she could, my wife would accompany me on my evening excursions, for one of herMany loves was poetry. Thomas, Whitman, Eliot, Shakespeare, and King David of thePsalms.

Lovers of words, makers of language. Looking back, I am surprised by my passion forit, and sometimes I even regret it now. Poetry brings great beauty to life, but alsogreat sadness, and I'm not sure it's a fair exchange for someone my age. A man shouldenjoy other things if he can; he should spend his final days in the sun.

Mine will be spent by a reading lamp. I shuffle toward her and sit in the chair besideher bed. My back aches when I sit. I must get a new cushion for this chair, I remindmyself for the hundredth time. I reach for her hand and take it, bony and fragile. Itfeels nice. She responds with a twitch, and gradually her thumb begins to softly rubmy finger. I do not speak until she does; this I have learned. Most days I sit in silenceuntil the sun goes down, and on days like those I know nothing about her.

Minutes pass before she finally turns to me. She is crying. I smile and release herhand, then reach in my pocket. I take out a handkerchief and wipe at her tears. Shelooks at me as I do so, and I wonder what she is thinking.

"That was a beautiful story."

A light rain begins to fall. Little drops tap gently on the window. I take her handagain. It is going to be a good day, a very good day. A magical day. I smile, I can'thelp it.

"Yes, it is," I tell her.

"Did you write it?" she asks. Her voice is like a whisper, a light windflowing though the leaves. "Yes," I answer.