All the time.
Even at the end.
He said you were the best decision he ever made.”
I looked at the back of her head.
“He made some bad decisions,” I said.
“Yes.” She kept washing.
“He did.
But not that one.”
I didn’t answer.
But I held Josephine a little closer, and I didn’t argue.
—
I called Diane on a Thursday afternoon in January.
“How’s the recovery?” I asked.
“Good.
Back at work full-time now.
Daniel started a new term and he’s obsessed with dinosaurs, so that’s the current situation.”
“Josephine is obsessed with the ceiling fan.”
Diane laughed.
“They’re very similar at that age.”
“I was thinking,” I said.
“In the spring, when things are a bit easier — would you want to bring Daniel over?
Just for an afternoon.
Nothing formal.
He could meet Josephine.
They could ignore each other the way babies and five-year-olds do.”
A pause.
“Yes,” Diane said.
“I think I’d like that.”
“Me too.”
After I hung up, I sat for a while in the quiet of the living room.
Josephine was asleep in her chair.
The winter light was coming through the window at a low angle, the way it does in January, making everything look a little softer than it is.
On the mantelpiece was a photograph of Mark — one I had taken on the porch the summer before he got sick, squinting into the sun the same way Daniel had squinted in his photograph.
I hadn’t taken it down.
I wasn’t sure I would.
He had been complicated.
He had been cowardly in one very significant way, and brave in others.
He had loved me, and he had kept a secret that had no good justification, and he had spent his last weeks trying to repair what he could from a hospital bed with a letter and a photograph and a doctor he trusted to wait for the right moment.
He hadn’t been able to fix it himself.
So he had handed it to me.
I looked at his face in the photograph for a long time.
“I’m figuring it out,” I said quietly.
“It’s not easy.
But I’m figuring it out.”
The ceiling fan turned slowly overhead.
Josephine slept on.
Outside, the winter light held.
—
*Some people leave us carrying more than we knew.
And sometimes the weight they leave behind turns out to be something we needed to carry — not because it’s fair, but because love, even imperfect love, asks us to be bigger than our hurt.*
