Last week, one of my very first boyfriends died. It was sudden and shocking, and not just because Terry Tomalin was relatively young and fit (55, and the longtime outdoors editor of the Tampa Bay Times), but because Terry was so distinctively full of life.
This bed I’ve made
She curls into a hot parenthesis against me, tiny hands and feet twitching in ballet dreams. I gather the bedclothes over a wisp of porcelain shoulder: flanneled sheets, down comforter with a sueded duvet; February, and the weight of bedding has not been altered since the winter prior.
Hitched
It is 30 June, 2012, and the moment I have spent my entire adult life actively fleeing is here, sun-gilded on sea, breeze-ruffed, anchored by boulders at the base of an ancient forest, and I have never been more at peace.