8.7.10

I went to the river. I went to the river singing a song we have sung together. The space around Mrs. Roosevelt was deliberately overgrown in a way it had not been, so the flowers came with me. There was one faintly blue hydrangea stalk and one creamy white rose. I tied them together with a grosgrain taupe ribbon with a pale blue border. I could practically hear your “OOOOOO!” From the granite steps I could see there was no one at our bench. From the granite steps I could remember the way the shape of your shoulders changed that space. I sat down there. An eerie quiet sat with me. I watched the kayakers for a long time. My husband, through with work, phoned and I could hear the worry in his voice. I did not know when I would be home. How long I sat is a mystery. I did not think of you much. I was afraid to. Like with the Vicar, the thing I wanted most was not to weep. There was no plan, but slowly I untied the flowers. I took the envelope from my bag. I tore two straight inch long lines in its flap to thread the ribbon through. I made a loop of the ribbon and hung it from the middle support of the frame of the bench, as if you would be by to retrieve it. I peeled the petals from the rose and let them fall next to me on the slats of the seat of the bench. I stood and leaned against the guard rail of that river, collecting the flowers of the hydrangea in my palm I tore them off the stalk and watched the blue buds flutter down passed the moss covered rocks into the water and slowly watched the river carry them away in random clusters. I took a few photographs of the bench before I stepped onto the granite steps. When I reached them from the walkway, I turned to see if someone had read your letter yet. Someone will, my husband said, hours later at dinner. I said yes, I knew that, but when I tried to say why that did not disturb me, I couldn’t say the words without my voice cracking---without falling silent after the attempt at explanation. It was at dinner that I finally broke down saying I think I finally believed you were gone now, because you did not meet me there. Let someone read your letter. Let them know that you are gone. Let them know our names. Let them know that we sat there. Let them know what a friendship can be. I am glad that I took the photographs. How well do I know myself? I do not think I will go there ever again.