Extract
I remember Everything.
A kiss at the nape of the neck.
You said you used to have a dream. When we werechildren, you dreamed that the nipples of my breasts burst through the fabric of my blouse. And when we were grown, you said the dream came back to you, and you had not had it in the years in between.
When we were children we whispered words like novices at vespers. We were children and afraid to say the words aloud. I believe this gave us longings that would last a lifetime.
But that afternoon, what did I know of indelible connections?
It was a September afternoon, a Sunday afternoon, and I remember it was raining. There were a hundred people in the wood-paneled library at the college, and a stack of books on a table by the door. Some friends were there, and my husband, Stephen. My daughter was not. I watched my husband gesture with his glass, embrace with a sweep of his hand (the wine spilling a bit over the rim) the entire room of people, as if he might still his own anxieties by becoming my most exuberant supporter. It was Stephen in a gray sweater and a blazer, who was standing by the table with the books – the books and that day’s newspaper, with my own picture in an advertisement.
Earlier that day, when we had driven to the college, Stephen had been quiet in the car. The onion sets that spring had been washed away by heavy and unexpected rains. Stephen had missed one payment at the bank, might miss another soon.
It wasn’t anything that Stephen had done or had not done. All the onion farms were going.