Yesterday, Doe and I were in that place in the park… just north of the bridle path, on the East Side but west of the road. The hill there slopes down on two sides to form a bowl of newly mowed grass, surrounded by trees. It’s one of our favorite places to rest and think. I never take for granted the joy of having Doe resting there, beside me. Yesterday, it was overcast but the sun kept breaking through. Still, it felt like it could rain at any moment. There was a strong breeze and it was quiet except for the noise of the trees moving in the wind. We were almost alone there except for an occasional runner, up on the bridle path, and two young women on the far side of the bowl, doing cartwheels and taking pictures of one another with a real camera. I made an effort to be where I was, there with Doe, and not in my head thinking of unreal things, or lost things, or things not happened yet.
The time with K. starts to feel like a dream. Like it didn’t happen. Or like it happened but wasn’t real. Although, every day there is the painting he gave me, on the wall, and the memory of some sweet or funny thing he said. I truly thought I was beyond it ever happening again but I should know better than to underestimate life’s surprises. It was poignant and heartbreaking for many reasons, none of them romantic. Romantically, there is no issue. I’m convinced of this, although who knows? I suppose, despite my feelings, it could be one-sided, but I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s the problem this time.
Like always, it is my work that rescues me, a new novel completed (K. helped, reviewing each chapter, encouraging me to go forward). I’m looking for a new agent and will take my time doing so. I don’t want this book to be sold into oblivion. I want to find someone who will find the right place for it, respect it, and support it. The new book is called While We Have Bodies. I started it long before K. and I got together but the title resonated during that time. Our fragile bodies. They serve the purpose of containing us– our souls, or whatever it is that makes us, us.