Looking back, I find it ironic that she chose to read the letter at the exact momentthat question popped into my head. It is ironic, of course, because I know the answernow. I know what it's like to be day and night now; always together, forever apart.
There is beauty where we sit this afternoon, Allie and I. This is the pinnacle ofmy life ∙ They are here at the creek: the birds, the geese, my friends. Theirbodies float on the cool water, which reflects bits and pieces of their colors andmake them seem larger than they really are. Allie too is taken in by theirwonder, and little by little we get to know each other again.
"It's good to talk to you. I find that I miss it, even when it hasn't been that long."
I am sincere and she knows this, but she is still wary. I am a stranger.
"Is this something we do often?" she asks. "Do we sit here and watch the birds a lot?
I mean, do we know each other well?"
"Yes and no. I think everyone has secrets, but we have been acquainted foryears." She looks to her hands, then mine. She thinks about this for a moment,her face at such an angle that she looks young again. We do not wear our rings.
Again, there is a reason for this. She asks: "Were you ever married?" I nod.
“ Yes .”
"What was she like?"
I tell the truth.
"She was my dream. She made me who I am, and holding her in my arms was morenatural to me than my own heartbeat. I think about her all the time. Even now, whenI'm sitting here, I think about her. There could never have been another.'' She takesthis in. I don't know how she feels about this. Finally she speaks softly, her voiceangelic, sensual. I wonder if she knows I think these things. "Is she dead?"
What is death? I wonder, but I do not say this. Instead I answer, "My wife is alive inmy heart. And she always will be."
"You still love her, don't you?"
"Of course. But I love many things. I love to sit here with you. I love to share thebeauty of this place with someone I care about. I love to watch the osprey swooptoward the creek and find its dinner."
She is quiet for a moment. She looks away so I can't see her face. It has been her habitfor years.
"Why are you doing this?" No fear, just curiosity. This is good. I know what she Means,but I ask anyway.
"What?"
"Why are you spending the day with me?" I smile.
"I'm here because this is where I'm supposed to be. It's not complicated. Both youand I are enjoying ourselves. Don't dismiss my time with you‐‐it's not wasted. It'swhat I want. I sit here and we talk and I think to myself, What could be better thanwhat I am doing now?"
She looks me in the eyes, and for a moment, just a moment, her eyes twinkle.
A slight smile forms on her lips.
"I like being with you, but if getting me intrigued is what you're after, you'vesucceeded. I admit I enjoy your company, but I know nothing about you. I don'texpect you to tell me your life story, but why are you so mysterious?"
"I read once that women love mysterious strangers."
"See, you haven't really answered the question. You haven't answered most of my
questions. You didn't even tell me how the story ended this morning."
I shrug. We sit quietly for a while. Finally I ask: "Is it true?" "Is what true?"
"That women love mysterious strangers ?"
She thinks about this and laughs. Then she answers as I would:
"I think some women do."
"Do you?"
"Now don't go putting me on the spot. I don't know you well enough for that." Sheis teasing me, and I enjoy it.
We sit silently and watch the world around us. This has taken us a lifetime tolearn. It seems only the old are able to sit next to one another and not sayanything and still feel content. The young, brash and impatient, must alwaysbreak the silence. It is a waste, for silence is pure. Silence is holy. It draws peopletogether because only those who are comfortable with each other can sit withoutspeaking. This is the great paradox.
Time passes, and gradually our breathing begins to coincide just as it did thismorning.
Deep breaths, relaxed breaths, and there is a moment when she dozes off, like thosecomfortable with one another often do. I wonder if the young are capable of enjoyingthis. Finally, when she wakes, a miracle.
"Do you see that bird?" She points to it, and I strain my eyes. It is a wonder I cansee it, but I can because the sun is bright. I point, too.
"Caspian stern," I say softly, and we devote our attention to it and stare as itglides over Brices Creek. And, like an old habit rediscovered, when I lower my arm,I put my hand on her knee and she doesn't make me move it.
She is right about my evasiveness. On days like these, when only her memory is gone,I am vague in my answers because I've hurt my wife unintentionally with careless slipsof my tongue many times these past few years, and I am determinednot to let it happen again. So I limit myself and answer only what is asked, sometimesnot too well, and I volunteer nothing.
This is a split decision, both good and bad, but necessary, for with knowledge comespain. To limit the pain I limit my answers. There are days she never learns of herchildren or that we are married. I am sorry for this, but I will not change.
Does this make me dishonest? Perhaps, but I have seen her crushed by thewaterfall of information that is her life. Could I look myself in the mirror without
