Just Another Stuffed Frog

I died at the age of thirty-two in an old, back-corner hospital room.  My daughter, Ruthie, was only seven.  The year was nineteen eighty-nine and bigger events were happening.  George Bush became President.  The Berlin wall was taken down.  There was a massacre in Stockton. 

The world was changing, and I enjoyed the change.  Until I didn’t.

Dying had been only the beginning.  It was a peculiar experience.  I was thirsty all the time, as if I had trekked through a desert with blistering skin, my mouth foaming.  I was weary.  In and out of awareness.  My wife, Evelyn, would sometimes morph into an iguana - which is odd because I never really thought about iguanas.  She’d be talking to me about silly, mundane things - like the garden or the bills (her way of pretending nothing was happening) and then she’d take on a different shape, a green, spiny tail whipping against the bed.  There would be a glow swelling behind her, and eventually it would consume her – words and all, leaving only the light.  Always the light.

Other times, Evelyn would be so clear and sharp I could see every pore, every particle of dust on her sweater.  In these moments, she’d talk about Ruthie and say things like: I’ll keep you alive for her. 

When they told her I was gone, I watched her head drop – as if something had been holding it up all along.  I was lying on the bed – and then I wasn’t.  I was like a feather, feeling fine – a burst of energy swelling through my body (body?) – and then I was beside her, examining my lifeless human self.  How withered and sunken I’d become!  How weak!

Evelyn didn’t cry.  She was sad, I knew.  But she wasn’t devastated.  She was prepared.  I had suffered – the shingles and the fevers, the shame of needing someone to dress and bathe me.  Death was better.  She could move on now.  She could release the years of inadequacy.  She could possibly find someone who examined her lips when she talked, who touched the curve of her waist when she walked.

The doctor said only: I’m sorry.

But Evelyn was grateful for his empathy. 

She said: You’ve been so understanding – so good, especially with Ruthie.

Ruthie had been kept away in the end.  For her safety.

They were afraid. Everyone was afraid.  So, the doctor snuck her in.

He’d said: If it were me, I’d want my daughter to say goodbye.

But Ruthie couldn’t say goodbye.  Not in the bland room with the tubes and the wires and the casing of a man she called Daddy.  So, she said nothing.  She stood there and watched me until Evelyn couldn’t take it anymore – had to turn and wipe her eyes.  Come now.

Evelyn had been my high school sweetheart.  Fiery red hair and a deep belly laugh.  She was sarcastic and strong-willed - told jokes like a sailor.  I was odd.  Overly sensitive.  I never quite found my place.  I used to wonder what attracted her to me.  Certainly, she had choices. 

Once, much later, she’d said: You were always in the shadows, hidden behind your hair.  You never paid me any mind.

But I did pay attention to her.  Of course.  She was like morning dew on a cattail spider web - plain, with mousy hair and smallish eyes - but animated and bright.  So much so, that one might miss the ordinariness. 

When she first came to me, with her plaid skirt and skinny legs, she’d said: Are you an artist of sorts?

I held my notebook of scribble and poetry tight to my chest – for it wasn’t her business, and I was shy.  I thought: I’ll simply run away, and then I won’t have to see her again.

But by noon the next day, I was seeking her out - reading, to her, verses I’d never read to anyone.  Unfinished work.  Insecurities.  And she listened.  She didn’t pretend, like my mother, with the blank stare and quick nods.  She stopped - body and thoughts - to hear me.  And I knew I would marry her before she even loved me.

After graduation, we had a small church ceremony in Massapequa.  My mother was there with her frown and her cross.  Her parents were there with their clown smiles.  Evelyn wore pink chiffon and sneakers.  I wore a tie and shorts.  We stuck our tongues out at the lives we were leaving.  It was the perfect design: Two completely different people, running from something, together.

I can’t say we didn’t have fun.  I landed a job as an editor’s assistant.  She finished college while waiting tables.  We were able to buy a small home with an unfinished pool, closer to the city. 

In the evenings, we cooked together.  In bed, we read together.  We didn’t finish each other’s sentences, but we beautifully co-existed. 

She liked to socialize, so I joined.  She liked to play Charades, so I helped her win.  We got to know the neighbors.  The mailman’s name was Joe.  Through it all, I watched Evelyn become a woman - a sturdy, honest and sometimes desperate woman.

She hated silence.  She always needed to have the television or radio on. 

She would say things like: It’s so quiet, I can’t think. 

She preferred chit-chat over intensity.  But this doesn’t mean she was shallow.  Rather, she was quite multifaceted - only cautious with that side of herself.  She had insomnia and hated to be confined.  She liked big fluffy socks, and walking around the house in nothing but a tee shirt.    

We were happy, I thought.

Then, one day, she said: Something’s missing.

It was a cold and grey November night when Evelyn introduced me to Peter.  She’d become a teacher, bought herself some suits.  Peter taught English at her school, wrote fiction on the side.  He’d been having a hard time, she said – because his wife is trying to get pregnant. 

We’ll meet him for a drink, she said.  He needs a break from baby talk.

She was thoughtful like that.  She was someone I really wanted to love. 

Anyway, she said, the two of you will have much in common.

When I saw Peter, he’d been leaning over a sweaty rocks glass.  He wore a crisp blue shirt tucked neatly into slacks.  He had thick hair that covered his ears.

He turned to greet us with an easy smile.  Your wife, he said, is wonderful with kids.

I’m sure, I said.

Cigar? he asked.

Why not?

At first glance, one might think him pretentious.  He had all the workings of a snob.  The designer clothes.  The expensive watch.

But he wasn’t.  Not really.  I found this a pleasant surprise. 

He was neat, I decided.  He liked to dress for an occasion.  Perhaps he was a bit compulsive.  He wiped the bar with his napkin.  His clothes were well-ironed.

He liked to touch when he talked.  He laughed when Evelyn got a stain on her shirt, asked the bartender for a towel.  Wiped her up – and then winked at me.

He watched people.  Studied them, it seemed.  Yet, he never missed a moment of our conversation. 

He asked questions.  He liked to learn.  His eyes had a childlike fervor.  He devoured the most basic of sentences.

When Evelyn was sarcastic, he was sarcastic back.  He was a good reactor.  He didn’t take himself too seriously.

By the time Ruthie was born, I was in love with Peter.  Because I was a gay man, and I had been a gay boy.  I hadn’t meant to be deceptive; didn’t understand any of it when I was young.  I thought love was what I felt for Evelyn. Together.  Forever.  But that was expectation.  A great, intimate friendship. 

Love and lust – all of it combined – was much different.

Evelyn was everything I wasn’t - a sculpture or painting I couldn’t touch but wished I’d created. 

Peter was an intricate puzzle I wanted to take apart and mix up, only to put back together over and over again.  In turn, I wanted to give him pieces of me that would never connect to anything. 

I wanted him to discover me.  To, unbreak me.

We kissed for the first time near a dumpster in an alley, our shadows coming together easily.  His mouth was wide and soft.  His hands were solid and deliberate.  I thought: This is where I fit.

Later, when Evelyn moved close to me in bed, I welcomed her – but it was different.  And she knew it.  And she wasn’t surprised. 

Evelyn knew about me before I knew about me. 

Once, she said: I want you to be you.  But, I’m human, you know.  Only human. 

When I got sick with the virus, she fell to her knees.  Oh no – but Ruthie!  Ruthie is so young!

Then, because she was angry – for the life she gave, and for what she would lose, she said: I want you to leave.

And I did, but only for a week.  When I returned, the office where I used to write, my sanctuary, had been changed.  The desk was gone.  There was a twin bed and a lone dresser.  The curtains, normally drawn, were pulled open.

You’ll sleep here, Evelyn said, and she was less than she used to be.  And I knew it was my fault. 

The view, she said, is better than I realized. 

Imagine, she said, all these years and I never knew you could see the bay from here.

She adjusted the bedspread.

I know you need the desk, she said, but there isn’t room.  I thought you could write in bed.  The view will help.

Even then, she was trying to sweeten what was sour.  Because, unfortunately for her - she was in love with me.

Ruthie didn’t catch the virus.  Neither did Evelyn.  Who knew we’d be grateful for long stretches without sex? 

With this news behind us, and Evelyn sinking into acceptance, she confessed things to me.

I knew you’d find your potential, she said.  I didn’t know it would turn out dark.

Potential? I asked.  And she meant Peter.

I thought you were mysterious.  But it was simply apathy.”

Don’t say that.  Not true.

You know what I mean, she said.  You were good, of course.  Always charitable.  But you never touched me inappropriately unless we were in the required setting.

Evelyn...,

I wanted you, she said, no – I needed you to touch me inappropriately sometimes.

I said nothing.

It’s okay.  I just knew there was more – I mean, the way you write.  I saw it all waiting to burst.  I just wanted it to be for me.

I thought: Oh, Evelyn!  If you only knew.  If you only knew how much I wanted to love you! 

I would have left her that night – just so she could move on – had I not been dying.  Had it not been for Ruthie. 

When Ruthie was born, I said to Peter: We must stop.  I was tired of lying.  I was tired of the sting in my chest.

He agreed.  He had his own issues at home – the infertility and such.  It would be better for everyone. 

But I’d become accustomed to his late-night voice.  The way he placed his hand on my knee without thought.  The idea of goodbye was suffocating for us.  When we tried – his fingers gripping my shoulders, breath on my lips – we failed.

As hard as it is, he said, it’s harder without you.

And he was right.  Before Peter, I was comfortably filled – might have stayed that way forever.  But what did it mean to be filled without hunger?

And then I’d think: Ruthie.

What a lovely pink child she had been!  When I held her for the first time - her thick, moppy hair a surprise – I cried.

She was a part of me.  The thought made me want to cloak her. 

Maybe, I thought, she would be confident and whole. 

Even Evelyn seemed happier.  Ruthie distracted us.  The big eyes.  The hiccup-laughs.  The temper.  She was a fiery eruption, and we were burning.  And it was good to feel the pain.

Ruthie wanted Evelyn when she was sick, when she needed to be coddled.  Otherwise, the child favored me.  Always wanting me to pick her up.  Always crawling into my lap so I could read to her. 

You’re a good father, Evelyn had said.  Better than I imagined.

Oh?  What did you imagine?

That your emotions might be too – I don’t know.  Quiet.

Quiet?

I didn’t think you’d love her as much as you do.

Why would you think I wouldn’t love my own child?

She didn’t answer, only bit her lip and watched the rain trickle down the windowpane. 

After I died, there was a lot of jumping from place to place.  There were no consecutive days.  I’d be in one year, and then I’d be in another.  I had no control over this.  I imagine – because I still had my imagination and thoughts – that it had something to do with things unresolved.  I wasn’t lonely – or sad.  I was a youthful version of myself, as if I’d just taken a brisk swim and had a whole life ahead of me.  The ferocity of the love I felt, and didn’t feel, was there – only less desperate.  And I no longer hated myself.  I was happy to drift.  Hard to explain.  I was me, still.  But I knew there was another place.  A place that would release me.

I saw Peter, middle-aged, with his wife.  No children.  Just the two of them.  I sat with them during dinner.  Peas and meatloaf.  They were quiet but not discontented.  His wife, whom I’d met only a handful of times, was a handsome woman with tight, curly hair and a prominent nose. She was eating fast, as if she had had somewhere to be.  But she was just a quick woman – everything done hastily, no time to savor or think.  Every now and then she would look at her hands, the lines and cracked fingernails.  She was a woman who’d been comfortable in her own skin, or rather, hadn’t paid much mind to external trivialities.  This would have attracted Peter.  But age – and perhaps boredom or bitterness – made her more aware of herself.   

It was easy to see why they were together. Certainly, she didn’t love Peter the way Evelyn loved me (and this was a good thing for them).   She didn’t know who Peter was.  I saw this immediately - his façade, his struggle – and she, unable to recognize it. But he didn’t want her to recognize it. Because then it would all come tumbling down. They needed each other.  They’d built a life of boundaries.  They’d built a life of ignorant companionship.  They had a pacifying home to settle into where secrets could fester, and silence was welcome.

When Peter finished eating, he sat back against his chair, the dipping sunlight coming through the blinds.  “The lawn looks dry,” he said.

His wife nodded. “I’ll tell the landscaper.”

“I can do it,” he said.

“We’re paying them.”

“Yes, but – I can still do it.”

“OK.”

“This heat…,” he said, his voice trailing.

“I know.”

Oh Peter, I thought. All the brilliance! - Yeats and Kipling over La Rioja wine, trembling fingers beneath quiet, covered tables – the poetry and the music!  Where’d you go?

On that first night, when we went to get our coats, Peter was gracious enough to help Evelyn with her jacket, and then he reached for my coat – knew exactly which one it was – and held it open for me.

I’ve got it, I said.

But he insisted, and so I slipped my body into it, and he wrapped the wool around me, lingering longer than he should have, fingers brushing against my neck.  It wasn’t predatory.  It was natural (but isn’t predatory natural?).

Let’s do this again, he said – to both of us.

And we agreed – but I was unable to meet his eyes. 

As I walked away, Evelyn’s arm tightly looped around mine, I felt a peppery jolt, a soothing buzz.  When I backed the car out of the parking space, I saw Peter watching from beneath the stealthy glow of a street lamp, his hands in his pockets. 

Now, here he was, on an ordinary day, being an ordinary man worried about grass.  And then I thought, as the light loosened my human emotion: Someone has to think of the lawn.

When finally, I shifted into a room with Ruthie, she was drawing stick-figure animals at her desk.  She had frog pajamas on, and her hair was damp.  She loved frogs – ever since that time at Lake Wallenpaupack when she couldn’t stop following one, wanted to touch it, take it home as a pet.  So, I found a stuffed frog – big eyes, pink tongue - and gave it to her when she turned five.  Her eyes widened in the way only innocents are capable of, and she slept with it every night; took it with her everywhere. 

Evelyn once said: Not sure how I feel about this attachment to a toy.

I said: Not just a toy.  A gift – from me.

Now, there was a soft trickling of moonlight illumining the side of her face.  Chubby face.  And the frog was propped up on the desk against the wall.  She kept touching it with her free hand, as if she wanted to be sure it hadn’t moved.

When Ruthie put down the crayons and turned around, she said: Hi daddy.

And I felt like my old, human self again – a punch in the stomach.

Can you see me? I asked.

Yes, you’re right there.  Silly.

The light was further away. 

Hi, kiddo – how are you?

I’m happy, she said, that you came.

I’m so happy you can see me.

Will you be staying?

Not for long.  But I’ll visit again.

Promise?

Yes. 

Mommy says you’ll visit in my dreams.

She’s right.

And that I can talk to you – even though you won’t be able to answer with words.  But you’re answering me right now.

There will be times, I said, when I won’t be able to answer you with words.  But I’ll always hear you.

And then her face fell: Daddy, where did you go?

I’m here, Ruthie – right here.  Can’t you hear me?

I felt the struggle, the light wrapping around me - and my resistance.

Daddy?

Then I was with Evelyn, and she was crying. 

I tried to move towards the door, back to Ruthie, but I couldn’t, and so I watched Evelyn’s shoulders lift and fall, and the damp pillow beneath her.  There was a sudden feeling, a thunder of sorts.  All the years of friendship that once lay in my heart seem to encompass me like a swarm of roaring cicadas.  I wanted to cover my ears and my eyes – but I had no ears or eyes. 

Then, it was calm again.

Go to Ruthie, I whispered.  Please stop crying.

I reached out to touch her, no hands, just heart – and I could feel her hot skin.  How I wanted so much for her to find love, someone who would rip apart the seams and let her out.  I knew her tears weren’t for me, because those tears had long been used.  She cried for herself, for her loneliness – and for the child who would grow without a father.

Shhhh, I whispered, and a cool breeze came sailing in from the partially opened window. 

She lifted her head and took in a deep breath – lilac and wet leaves.

For a moment, the crying ceased, and she sat up, rubbing her eyes.

Ruthie, she said, getting up to leave the room.  Go to Ruthie.

I couldn’t follow.

Time passed in their world.  It didn’t move in mine.  But the light was like an old friend, always there, waiting, watching – encircling me at times, and pulling me closer - away from my old self.

I watched Ruthie celebrate her tenth birthday.  She blew out the candles and made one wish: I wish to see daddy – like that time in my bedroom.

Evelyn only smiled, patting her head.

Daddy hears you, she said.

But did she really believe it?

I touched, without hand, Ruthie’s shoulder. I could see her in her purest form, the first snowfall on a newborn city road.

“Mommy, do you smell it? Like daddy’s cigars?”

Evelyn glanced around the room. “Patchouli,” she whispered. “Yes, I do smell it.”

The frog had a birthday hat on, and its own chair.  Ruthie grabbed it and pressed it against her chest.

Evelyn stood up: Come.  Let’s open your presents.”

Ruthie hesitated.  

Sorry, I whispered.  I let go of her shoulder.

I was able to follow them to the next room.  I watched as Ruthie tore apart the wrapping paper and then stopped to gather it and throw it away.  She wore blue jeans and a simple white sweater.  Her hair was in a long braid.  I wondered if Evelyn was seeing what I was seeing.  Girl-woman.   

Ruthie would become studious and thoughtful.  She wouldn’t be bound by that which restrained her mother and me.  She would have her mother’s humor – or, rather, she would see the humor in things.  Yes, this I knew.  I don’t know how – but I knew.  And I was glad.  Life had too many obscurities. 

Later, when Ruthie and her frog were entangled beneath the sheets, I was still there.

The dog tree has grown, she said suddenly.  Remember when we planted it?

I did remember.  It wasn’t a dog tree, but a Kousa dogwood.  Her special tree. 

I wish you were here to see it, she said. 

Can you see me, kiddo?  I’m right here.

But she couldn’t see me, so I listened, hoping she would feel me.

She whispered: Last time you saw me, I was little.  I have long hair now – almost down to my waist.  But I hate it – it’s silly and babyish.  I want to cut it, but Mom tells me no.  She thinks I will regret it.  If you were here, I think you’d understand.  I think you’d say, It’s only hair.

Ruthie… 

Goodnight daddy.  Talk tomorrow.

Peter turned fifty-five.  My human-self had been gone for twenty-five years at that point.  I wondered why I was still here; why the light wouldn’t open.  I knew I was stuck. 

His hair was peppery, but still full.  His eyes were much older than his years.  He wore shorts and a blue shirt, unbuttoned.  His skin was dark from the sun and deeply freckled.  There was a drink beside the white plank-chair he sat in.  I imagined it was vodka – could almost taste the lemon, squeezed.   He was not unhappy.  I was glad.  He had entered a sleepy time, his robust appetite waning. 

I sat beside him for a long time, wondering about his thoughts – hearing distant music – Circus Homunculus. 

You there? he asked, suddenly.

I am.

But he didn’t hear me the way Ruthie had.  Perhaps he only talked for himself.

He said: How can I find reprieve? 

What is it, Peter?

Look at this life, he said, the sun and the trees – the saltwater breeze.  Thinking of it that way, the rest is not so bad.  You might have been happy.  You might have seen your child grow.

Not your fault, I whispered.

His lips trembled, and he reached for his sunglasses and put them on.  To you! he said, raising his glass.  May you be somewhere far and baroque.  May you be at peace.

I could hear our glasses clinking, and then – as if they’d hit too hard, his glass slipped from his hand and shattered against the pavement.

Dammit, he muttered, rising and calling out to his wife as he walked toward the house.  Before he reached the door, he stopped and looked around. 

Once, in a dimly lit bar in Manhattan, we were drinking vodka with fresh lemon, and he said: I have the virus.

What do you mean?

You know what I mean. 

I’d heard of it, of course.  They called it different things.  They called it the Gay Disease.

I held my breath.  How do you know? 

They found it.  I was trying to donate blood.

How can this be?

He shrugged. 

Peter, how did you get it?

Silence.

Who gave it to you?

He lowered his eyes.  I don’t know, he said carefully.  There were too many.

This drained the color from my face.  I had thought, foolishly, that I was sacred; that we had both found each other and entered a place where things were unruffled and we could be who we were meant to be.  Together.

You’ve been scarce, he said.  Fleeting.  It wasn’t enough.

I didn’t speak, only imagined him dancing beneath flickering lights, bodies of men surrounding him, touching him, when I couldn’t.  I’d never felt such intensity, such provocation.

Don’t, he said.  Don’t think of it.  Nothing was ever like this.

I tried to calm myself, but my heart was pummeling me.  I thought if I spoke, I would cry.  Weak!

Look at you, he said, jealous and you can’t even say it.

I can.

But you’re not hearing me.

I heard.

For a few long moments, we were both silent.  Then, he said, matter-of-factly: I’ll die, of course.  But I’m more scared that I’ve given it to you.  To her. 

And then it was Ruthie who filled my thoughts.  Lovely, precious Ruthie who was waiting for me at home, who needed me to keep her safe.

Peter hadn’t passed it to his wife.  For this he was grateful.  But I became ill rather quickly.  Later, they would tell him something surprising, something rare: Yes, he had the virus – would forever have the virus, but he wouldn’t get sick.

You’re dying, he said, when the lesions began covering my neck, but I’m the cursed one.

When Ruthie was seventeen, strong, independent and aware, she decided to leave home. 

Evelyn tried to argue, but inside I knew she wanted Ruthie to go - that she wanted Ruthie to have the life she never had.  A life of chances, and discovery, and passion.

Ruthie hadn’t talked to me in years.  But she hadn’t unleashed me, either.  There were moments she sat by our tree, watching something – a future, perhaps – and doing so with my permission.  She pruned the tree when it needed pruning.  She watered it if the weather got too dry.  She kissed the frog every night before bed – but she didn’t sleep with it anymore.

There’d been a boy in high school.  Tommy.  He was gentle, and Ruthie liked him.  I was happy to be there when they held hands and fell asleep on the beach without letting go.  Ruthie’s cheeks had been pink from the hot night, and from the anticipation of new love.  I knew they would stay this way for days if they could, the whispering shore a lullaby.   But Evelyn would worry, and the tide was coming in. 

I tried to wake them, to call out so Ruthie might hear - but she didn’t.  I tried to touch her, but I couldn’t.  I kicked the sand without feet, and finally, it lifted and moved all around them – her hair, his collar.  She sat up, brushing herself off. 

She said: It’s time to go.

It was a good romance.  They would both grow from it.  And she understood, when it was over, that there would be others.

On Ruthie’s last day home, Evelyn asked for a phone number.  She said: I need to know where you’ll be.

Mom, I’m going to travel.  I won’t be in one place.

OK.

Don’t worry.  It will be hard if I think you’re worried.

Not worried.  Just cautious.

I’ll call you when I get where I’m going.  I promise. 

I believe you.  But be careful.  Please. 

Of course.

I love you, Evelyn said.

I love you, too.  And mom, Ruthie said.  Go out once in a while.  Have a drink - or two.  Have sex.

Ruthie!

You know what I mean.

Later, Ruthie made her bed and pulled the shade down.  She grabbed a small bag filled with only necessities.  It was time. 

The old frog was lying on the desk, loose threads hanging.  When she saw it, she said: You.

She lifted the frog to her face, pressing it against her cheek.  She stayed that way for a few moments, a tear tumbling off her chin. 

This time, she said, I’ll be brave. 

The light was hovering over me.  My human emotions were bubbling, and I reached for her, without arms.

Outside, the rain began tapping against the window.  This made her smile.

Goodbye, she whispered.

She left the frog on the desk, where the coloring books and drawings no longer gathered.  I would come back to this room again – I don’t know why - but Ruthie would not return.  She would have an abundant life.  A good life.  And like most of us, she wouldn’t truly know it.  The frog would be sold in a yard sale, many years later, to another child, a boy. 

When Evelyn was an older woman - but not too old - there was a young man - much younger than her - who lived in town, and he helped Evelyn take care of the lawn and the pool.  He was a neighbor of sorts - close, but not too close.  And he didn’t have to come.  He had other things to do – a career, a couple of dogs.  He’d seen Evelyn struggling as he was driving by, and so he pulled over to help her, and they made an arrangement. 

On the days he would come, Evelyn would greet him at the door, a myriad of thank-yous spilling from her lips, and then she’d retreat upstairs – to leave him be - to watch him from the window.

I would see her in that closed-up room, and I would be struck by familiar scents – long ago perfumes of sandalwood and ginger.

On my last visit, I stayed for a long time.  Evelyn and I watched the young man for almost thirty minutes, skimming the pool and pulling the weeds.  How selfless, I thought.  How kind. 

I found I was able to move about in the house, to soar through the rooms easily.  Ruthie’s bedroom door was closed, her name still etched into the wood (how mad Evelyn had been that day!).  The stairs were getting old, creaking as I passed them.  In the kitchen, the wallpaper was yellow and peeling. 

The old screen door was unlocked, misaligned, because a hinge was loose.  I pushed it, without hands – nothing.  I kept pushing it – the door, the wind, getting stronger – and then, it began to move, and I smiled without mouth - the light dancing around me.  Finally, the door flapped so desperately that the young man couldn’t help but notice, had to stop what he was doing to go to it, the gust causing him to cover his face with his hand, and Evelyn to rush down the stairs.

My goodness, she said.  Is a storm coming?

The young man didn’t know, but he was happy to fix the door.  He stepped into the kitchen.  Evelyn, in a new blue dress, twisted and pulled at her hair.  There was wine.  She placed her fingers on the cork.  Suggested it.  He shrugged, thought it sounded nice.   He stayed for the wine.  And then, for the laughter.  I saw Evelyn’s eyes become clear, the way they’d been in her youth. 

I left when the sunlight waned, and the candles were being lit.

Peter died at the age of sixty-five.  I was with him.

It was a Thursday afternoon, and he was walking down the street, a kink to his step.  It was autumn, and the leaves were dancing around us.  I could almost feel the cool, fragrant air.

We passed a restaurant, a small bookstore on the corner. 

Oh, Peter – the books!  How I longed to touch a book!  

He stopped for a moment and placed his hand on the window glass.  There was a display of books – an author coming to town.  Peter sighed.

Then, everything was quiet – even the cars rushing by could not be heard.

At that moment, I knew.  

And the light was darting and twisting around me.  Not yet! I said.  Not like this!

I tried to stop it. 

A woman’s grocery bag fell.  He kneeled to help her, like I knew he would.

I said: Turn around! 

He paused and looked behind him but continued forward anyway.

A branch fell in front of him, and he stumbled, then kicked it to the side.

It was simply his time. 

The virus didn’t kill him.  A car did. 

Before it came, before the accident, which would be an explosive display of fire and sparks, and sharp metal glints – a proper death – he said: I know you’re here.

And then, the light enveloped me, warm and thick, and I knew my time in their world was over.

I realized that it wasn’t me who was stuck – it was them.  They couldn’t move on, so I couldn’t either.

I’m still in the light.  Peter is here, too.  I can’t see him – no, it’s nothing like that – there is no seeing, not in the human way - but I feel him, and I talk to him without words, and we laugh without laughter – because laughter isn’t needed in the light.  Every human emotion - bad and good - is mixed and spread out like fresh butter on warm bread.  Nothing comes and goes.  It all just is. 

 Evelyn will be here soon.  One day, Ruthie will join us.  And in the light, we can finally all be together, no past to forgive, no future to worry about. 

There will be nothing at all to separate us.