My friend

This luscious afternoon in the courtyard I think about whether I’d like to write about fiction – my heroine Agnes, of course – or reality – my friend Mark, of course. Instead I’ll write about the luscious afternoon.

I lie on a Sunbrella-fabric lounge chair in the courtyard at the Parker Guesthouse. Almost the hour for the wine social – and for the temperature to drop precipitously from a pleasant 68 to a nipple-hardening 54. I remain after three hours in this back yard worshipful of plants, trees, and fresh air. The tension in my skull begins to ebb, the sadness in my heart begins to lift, and the dull pain behind my eyes begins to evaporate.

A mild breeze breathes on by, so unlike the harsh winds of Tropical Storm Isaac that I confronted during my 48 hours in Florida – after the East Hampton trip, before I flew out to San Francisco – and I breathe in the happy air of Northern California. I wonder what air came along for the ride from New York, what came from Fort Lauderdale. Does any of it bring our grieving from the Hamptons, and does any of it bring the hurricane-season anxiety from Florida? I feel little of it here. But it remains in the back of my head, that grief and anxiety.

I’ll remain here until Saturday, under strict orders from myself to decompress from the funeral and recharge myself. No obligations, no plans, no interactions. Just time for myself, by myself, and with myself. The maple above flutters in the wind, its orange-red leaves waving hello to me. The British gentlemen across the way cast flirtatious glances my way – even if I’m almost 50 and have bags under my eyes.

All of this helps me recover from Mark’s death. It will be a long road to recovery.