I put the pages aside and remember sitting with Allie on our porch when she read this letter for the first time. It was late afternoon, with red streaks cutting the summer sky, and the last remnants of the day were fading. The sky was slowly ging color, and as I was watg the sun go down, I remember thinking about that brief, flickering moment when day suddenly turns into night.
Dusk, I realized then, is just an illusion, because the sun is either above the horizon or below it. And that means that day and night are linked in a way that few things are; there ot be ohout the other, yet they ot exist at the same time.
How would it feel, I remember w, to be always together, yet forever apart?
Looking back, I find it ironic that she chose to read the letter at the exaent that question popped into my head. It is ironic, of course, because I know the answer now. I know what its 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 pinnay life. They are here at the creek: the birds, the geese, my friends. Their bodies float on the cool water, which reflects bits and pieces of their colors and make them seem larger than they really are. Allie too is taken in by their wonder, and little by little we get to know each ain.
"Its good to talk to you. I find that I miss it, eve hashat 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 for years."
She looks to her hands, then mine. She thinks about this for a moment, her face at su ahat she looks young again. We do not wear s. 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 more natural to me than my owbeat. I think about her all the time. Even now, when Im sitting here, I think about her. There could never have been another.
She takes this in. I dont know how she feels about this. Finally she speaks softly, her voigelic, 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 in my heart. And she always will be."
"You still love her, dont you?"
"Of course. But I love many things. I love to sit here with you. I love to share the beauty of this place with someone I care about. I love to watch the osprey swoop toward the creek and find its dinner."
She is quiet for a moment. She looks away so I t see her face. It has been her habit for 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. "Im here because this is where Im supposed to be. Its not plicated. Both you and I are enjoying ourselves. Dont dismiss my time with you - its not wasted. Its what I want. I sit here aalk and I think to myself, what could be better than what 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 gettirigued is what youre