For Larry

More about For Larry

She remembered the summer they slept under his aunt’s thin quilts and woke at dawn to the dog’s pawing. Back when his hair was dark and curled wild, and they read Annie Dillard aloud to each other.

She would help him carry wood down to the beach for ceremonial fires. He hated the spoilers — the passing cruise ships, their belching smokestacks and wasteful buffets. But welcomed the friendly bobbing of seals in the waves. Maybe they want us to play, she had said.

They thought they had all the time in the world, though every visit was only a stop on another journey. The visits ended after a while, but they never stopped writing letters — literary and personal, like drafting chapters for their memoirs.

Now, after almost a year of silence, another letter arrives. He apologizes for not accepting what she saw then, and what others see now about Gaza—and for not getting back in touch sooner. He adds a few more paragraphs, circling the real news, softening what must finally be told: that he has cancer, and a CaringBridge Page.

She can’t finish the letter. Grief rises, and she hates that she never chose to stay. I love you was always easier with him, though most times she didn’t say it aloud.

She will not let him go easily. She will burn prayers in a sacred fire every day, if that’s what it takes.

And she will let the memories linger, the thin quilt, the curl of his hair, the dog’s restless paws — as if she could step back into that room, and for a breath, be held there again.