Friday, December 8, 2017


People tell me things. I listen; I remember. I tend to free associate, relating why one person tells me with what others have told me, and with my own experience and frame of reference: mythology, literature, psychology, history and my world view. Then I write stories. You know—the creative process—whatever that is!
     I am a writer. There I’ve said it! Until recently I did not think I was qualified to do so, since I am not a well-known author with a publisher or agent. Then, I realized: Hey, I am not totally unqualified either. I am facile with my native language, articulate and motivated, and I recently self-published two books. I have much to say, many ideas,  and people tell me things—things that should be heard and not forgotten.
What do people tell me? 
  True things, imagined things, funny things, sad things, intelligent things, crazy things, joyful things, tragic things. They speak of their experiences, their thoughts, and their feelings. I listen, but not because I am trying to glean material for my writing. In fact, I never think at the time that I will use the things people reveal . Why? Because I am truly interested in their lives, no matter how different from my own experience their stories may be.
  I don’t take notes and may never use most of the things people tell me in my writing. It just happens that when I am in the throes of my own creative writing process—being moved along by what and from where I don’t know, the things people have told me start to appear in characters’ dialogue, thoughts and actions, or as part of the narrative.
  I love when that happens!
I don’t feel I am violating a trust, although I suppose if the people who have shared their stores with me read and recognize something they thought they had entrusted to me, they might feel betrayed. I would hope not. I think of my writing more as a laying bare of the human condition, partly through the things people have told me. Italo Cavino, the fabulist writer said, “A classic is a book that has never finished what it has to say.” And so it is with our lives—which are filled with meaning and offer acknowledgement, and maybe some understanding, of our common humanity.
Dante wrote about the medieval tradition of thinking on four levels when interpreting the Bible and literature: the literal, the allegorical, the moral, and the analogical. I would suggest this “method” also applies to experiences in life as well, as I have  thought of these levels as a way to understand the things people tell me, which are parts of the book of their lives—also never finished what it has to say.
That’s why I listen, remember, and sometimes write about the things people tell me. If no one is there to hear and to record them, they will not live on. And they should—not only to entertain readers, but also to inform, inspire, and maybe even to go deeper to formulate questions or to see connections to their own lives.
It may be that I sometimes intuit more than what people tell me, through a gesture, a facial expression or a gaze. I may see in their stories a pattern, a theme in their lives, as I see in my own (and others may see in mine). These too can be understood on all four levels: the literal reality of it, the symbolism in it of a concept or principle, the moral implications of it and the possible analogical, which transcends it all to the philosophical/spiritual/universal: whether it relates to beauty, sadness, or a small, unnoticed heroic deed. In their words there are hopes, anxiety and sometimes despair. Sometimes I sense apathy, deluded thinking, magical thinking or no thinking at all—just feeling.
  Standing before friends beside their 24 year-old son’s casket, we just looked into each other’s eyes for a long time. I knew the story of pain, of lost hope, of lost faith: an ancient human story, with each of the four levels evident and all understood in that moment—with no words.
  People tell me things. I hear them, and I remember. I will continue to write what I hear, what I see, what I know, attempting to tell the ongoing, classic book of the human story that will never finish all that it has to say.


Time is relative. Isn’t everything? It’s all a matter of perspective. Time goes faster or slower depending on velocity and gravity. Hello, Einstein, or is it Newton? not that I understand the theory of relativity or Newton’s concept of of absolute time, but I do think we all experience time in the same way, which someone else defined as that which keeps everything from happening at once. I think it was John Lennon. Look it up!
  “Time is a stream I a go a-fishing in.” Hello Thoreau, whose thoughts  are far easier to understand than Newton’s or John Lennon’s for that matter. His impression was that time is just there and w can leisurely dip in and out of it, casting our thought and actions into it (or not). For him it seemed there was not a sense of urgency about time—that was the way of the world. Though it was evident then that the world was in a rush, neglecting the more important things of the mind, heart and soul, and especially the treasures of nature—the woods!
  What would he think now of the way we live, the urgency of our lives, dependent on cell phones, wasting “time” on social media, email, video games, TV, and an ap for everything imaginable. Yep, we have most definitely “been cast out of The Garden,” and have taken a big bite of an Apple of another kind.
  But Thoreau saw where we were headed (at the speed of light  to extend my pseudo-scientific metaphor). I don’t think Thoreau could have imagined that we would be headed back to the future though—going chronologically forward in time but backwards to dredge up old grievances of race and gender and…don’t get me started on that!
  One thing we can all agree upon is that we all live in the present though our thoughts are often on the past or future causing anxiety about what could have been or what we should have (or not have) done, and what we have to accomplish in the future. Actually focusing on the present is difficult, maybe impossible for some, but it seems to happen when we fall in love—and no one or nothing exists but the beloved. It can also happen when we are with children, partly because we tend to all of their present needs and activities, of which play is certainly one of them.
     Children compel us (if we are attentive and allow them  us) to live and love each moment, and that means time stands still, to quote another voice: “For the present is the point at which time touches eternity” (C.S. Lewis).
  Once when my grandson Finn was about 4, I told him I would be going home “tomorrow,” and that it made me sad.  With the wisdom of childhood, he said, “It’s not tomorrow now.” That penetrated to the core of my being. He was right, and I realized I was trying to impose the future on him when he, rightfully so, lived only in the present, the “now,” as children and lovers do. 
     Finn challenged me into doing the same—to be with him in the here and now—no worries, only the joy of each other’s company.  As adult humans, we refer to the calendar and clock for our day, week, month and year, getting the children to school, catching the bus, preparing that report , making phone calls, keeping appointments, planning way too far ahead--with no end in sight. 
Can we not so much “take time,” but forget time and the absurdity of our spinning on a blue planet madly through the dark, cold expanding universe into what, into where?Can we “just be,” sit quietly under the stars, or under a tree with a friend, calm ourselves before sleep or upon waking, live in the present with or without children or lovers?  

  There is the silence, the warmth, the breeze, the sound of the sea for a timeless time—before we dip back into that stream....Splash!

Wednesday, March 22, 2017


I think a thousand thoughts 
What ifs and if onlys?
I do not speak them
fearing the answers

Words have power to bring things into being

Do you believe it?
Then why are you silent, dear one?
Have you no thoughts?
Who silenced you?

I went to a meadow of tall grass and whispered
a prayer, a wish, a memory, a dream
The doves called—one to another

As the sun rose above the purple hills
I thought I heard you answer

But it was just the wind.


Where will you lay your head?
Down in the meadow where the wood thrush sings

Where will you leave your heart?
In the high tower where the church bell rings

What will you leave behind?
Loaves and fishes for hungry poor

Where will you sail your ship?
Far away to a starry shore.

Monday, March 6, 2017

BOOK OF HOURS - First Story in Time and Time : A Collection of Tales

The sign caught her eye. It was round and gleaming, reflecting the afternoon sun: TIME & TIDE ANTIQUE CLOCKS printed in black letters on a white clock face with Roman numerals. She noticed there were no hands on the clock. Although the shop had been on the outskirts of town forever, she had never taken notice of it as she did on this day. She had driven two hours since leaving the airport and was ready for the day to end, but felt compelled to turn in at the entrance next to the sign.
     Helen had been twenty years away from the sights and sounds of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Familiar to her, but in a dreamlike way, were horse and buggies clopping along the roads; makeshift farm stands stacked with fall wares: pumpkins, jars of relishes and jams, zinnias, and chrysanthemums. Helen stopped to buy flowers for her mother. A sullen young girl in a plain gingham dress and white apron, who made no eye contact, lifted a bunch of bright zinnias from a tin bucket, wrapped them in newspaper, counted out change from a green glass jar and returned to her post.
     Driving on past acres of sunflowers, Helen was remembering when she was a child and sometimes watched for hours from her window across endless acres to see them turning their brown eyes toward the sun’s arc through the sky. The variegated patches of crops stretched like a giant quilt over the rolling landscape toward the misty blue hills beyond. Despite the quaint appeal and simple beauty of it all, she felt she had been washed ashore on a lonely island as a stranger.
     Just a few weeks ago, she had received a letter. Her mother was dying. She had to come, wanted to come. During those years away, she had never thought to return, not even for a visit, but here she was in a place that had never felt like home. She found her real home in the Mediterranean—on the island of Lipari, bathed in light and warmth, wrapped in blue sea and sky. She would carry something of it with her into the cold winter ahead, which held the unwelcome promise of grief.
     Time was of the essence; this she knew, but there would be this time with her mother before it was too late.
Still, she had somehow been drawn to turn at the clock sign before going the short distance to the bleak farm house where her mother waited.
     She drove slowly down the long driveway, past a white-washed mansion with its ornate black iron fence, brick walkway lined with hedge rows, lush shrubs and Victorian lamplights. Though the elegance of the stately house seemed out of place in the otherwise austere landscape dotted with modest houses, it gratified her finer sensibilities.
     Just ahead she spotted a long, grey building and parked in front of it, assuming it was the shop, though she saw no sign or markings on it. With some effort, she pulled open the carved wooden door that looked like it belonged on a church instead of the one-story, dreary, rectangular warehouse. When she stepped inside, her eyes tried to focus in what at first seemed total darkness, having come out of the brilliant daylight. Soon, she saw small shafts of light entering from rows of narrow windows along the top of the walls, shedding a misty light on the ticking clocks below. Such an odd place, she thought, as her vision adjusted to take in the sight of hundreds of clocks on multi-leveled shelves set on long tables. Amid the odor of old wood and dampness, she saw no one, not even at the island desk far ahead that seemed to mark the middle of the gaunt space.
     She walked an unhurried pace along the main aisle, then through several side aisles, viewing the vast display of clocks standing like old soldiers at attention, waiting to be inspected. She stopped here and there to admire the shapes and designs of the colorful ceramic clocks with scenes of farmhouses and gardens. She shuddered at the somber black cases of others. She smiled at the clock with a white marble base, a brass horse and hound on one side, and a bright yellow clock face covered with a glass dome on the other.
     Where had these clocks been, and what had they “seen”? Who were their owners, and how had they lived? Where were the souls now who had lived by the dictates of their ringing reminders of passing time? She was startled to hear a thin voice. “Can I help you?”
     She heard the unmistakable singsongy Pennsylvania Dutch intonation, and turned to see an old man standing next to her.
     “Oh, thanks, but…no, no, just popped in to see what you have. I grew up in this town, but I’d never been to your shop.”
     “Oh, it’s not my shop. It’s my father’s.”
     Your father’s? She said only,Oh? certain that his father could not possibly still be alive. The man looked ancient, bent over, with grey, wispy hair, and eyes clouded with a bluish film.
     “You let me know if you have any questions, young lady.”
     “I will for sure. Thanks.”
     “Excuse me?”
     “Marchenmeister, I’m Earl Marchenmeister, Jr.
     “Oh, right…yes, well, thank you, Earl. I think I’ll take a quick look around if that’s okay.”
     “Yah, I’ll just be right there,” pointing to the island ahead situated in the sea of clocks. She watched as he padded his way back and sat himself down with some effort at the elaborate desk, the front of which was in the shape of a ship’s prow.
     What a strange man! She was imagining that over the years he had cared for each timepiece—recognized its chimes, knew where it had been, and maybe even the fate of those who had owned it. I’m being ridiculous; he’s an old-fashioned man who’s probably inherited the place and still thinks of it as his father’s. She wondered if the old man had a son who would inherit the shop when time runs out for him. Now, why do I care about that? What does it matter to me? No matter!
     Then she saw it: a clock exactly like the one in her island apartment in Italy. It was elegant with its reddish wooden case embellished with gold leaf designs. The hands on the clock face were silver filigree, and a flowery red line around the perimeter above the hours. On the glass door beneath the face was an image of the church of Santa Croce painted in thin golden lines, the pendulum peeking through.
     I cannot believe this!

     She had been a wayfarer ever since she could remember—first in thought, then, when she left home, in her wanderings. For years, she had traveled through the Greek islands, then settled in Florence, across from the Piazza di Santa Croce on Via di San Giuseppe. She felt she was living in a dream where all of her senses were gratified. And she had found love, but one day her lover left without a word. Again she became restless, and when she saw the ad for “un appartamento con vista,” on an Island off Sicily, she moved and devoted all of her time to her work.
     When she arrived in Lipari, she felt she had found a home at last. There on the mantel above the fireplace in the “solotto,” she saw the clock with delicate gold lines in the image of Santa Croce on the glass door and thought it an odd coincidence. Sometimes, when the clock chimed, she closed her eyes and felt she was back in Florence with her lover lying beside her, warm on the daybed by the fire—his kind and shining eyes looking upon her—the smell of espresso and wood fire smoke drifting in window, and church bells resounding through the room.

     Thoughts of her Mediterranean home, whose beauty still surprised her after so many years, now filled her with a warmth, though she felt disoriented by the clock’s appearance, here in the cold warehouse. She crossed the aisle to gaze at it in reverie. Now she did have a question for the old man.
      She turned to make her way to where he sat dozing with his arms folded across his chest. “Excuse me…excuse me, Earl,” she whispered, so as not to wake him abruptly.
     He opened his eyes and looked up, “You want to know something about one of my clocks?”
     “Yes, I guess…I mean, I saw a beautiful Italian clock down the aisle there. At least I think it’s Italian. I had one exactly like it when…I mean it wasn’t mine. It was there in my apartment…in Italy when I moved in…and…”
     They walked together to where the clock rested. “That is one of a kind, Miss. There are no others,” the old man said.          As soon as they stopped in front of it, just on the hour, the clocks began a fugue of chimes and bells, so neither of them could speak until the ringing played out and faded into uneven ticking.
     “No others? There must be…”
     “Nope, one of a kind. Yah, this is a special one,
     “Helen…my name is Helen. One of a kind? But it’s exactly like the one I….How long have you had it?”
     “Oh,…been here…years now…can’t remember… from New England. Maybe waiting just for you, no?”
     “No, it must have…” She took a deep breath, then asked, 
     “Can you tell me something more about it? It must have…” 
     “The clocks will tell you about themselves.”
     “What do you mean? How…how do they tell about themselves?”
     “When you have the clocks around and you love them, you hear what they know.”
     “Know? What? Then you must know what this clock knows, right?”
     “Yah, yah, I do, but it’s different for everybody. Yah, different, Miss Helen.”
     She said, “Really? That's very strange.”
     Earl turned from the clock to Helen again, “Yah, different, but not so strange. You will see.”
     “See? How will I…?” Feeling a little strange herself, she realized the old man was not going to tell her a thing about the clock. “I will think about it…it’s lovely, but I…I should be going now.” She thanked him, gazed longingly at the clock, then turned toward the door. As she moved away from it, she felt she was abandoning it, silencing it somehow.
     “Not going to take it with you, Miss Helen?” he called after her, the last word rising in his raspy voice. “It will have things to tell you.”
     She did not look back. Who is that man, anyway, the Gepetto of clocks? She shook her head and laughed as she picked up her pace. She pushed hard on the heavy door, expecting a burst of light, but the sun was already low in the sky and disappearing at the horizon when she arrived at her mother’s house.
     The hospice nurse answered the door, holding out her hand in greeting. “Helen? Nice to meet you. How was your trip?”
     “Oh, good, yes…good, thanks. Nice to finally meet you, Mary. Thank you so much for keeping in touch, and for…everything you’ve done. How is she?”
     “Resting now. She was very agitated today. I wanted to wait until you got here. She’s asleep now. She’s had her meds. I told her you would be here when she woke up; that made her smile.”
     “I should have gotten here sooner.” Do you think I could wake her?
     “No worries, really, but I know she’s been looking forward to welcoming you home. I’ve just given her some morphine, so she may not rouse, but you can try.”
     Mary showed Helen how to administer the morphine drops for anxiety or pain and how to set up the nebulizer for breathing treatments. “I’ll be back day after tomorrow, but now you call me if you have any questions, will you?
“Yes, will do.” Helen walked with Mary to the door, thanked her again and said, “Good night.”
     “Good night, Helen, and…welcome home.”
     Home. Walking back through the entrance way, she looked around. Nothing’s changed; everything’s changed. She went to the kitchen, put the flowers in an old jar she found on the dusty window sill, then went to her bag to find the gift she had brought for her mother.
     She entered the room where the old woman lay. So thin and frail. Oh, Mother, I should have come sooner. She placed the flowers on the bedside table, leaning over to put her hand on her mother’s slender arm and taking up the blue-veined hand in her own, whispered, “Mom…Mom, it’s me. It’s Helen. I’m here now.
     “I’m here now.”
     “I’ve been waiting,” her mother said, as her eyes drifted to the ceiling, fluttered a moment and closed again.
      “I know…I know, Mom. Look, I brought you something.”
     Helen placed her gift under the lamp on the dresser across from the bed, so her mother could see it: a mosaic tile on a stand with a scene of Lipari in the sea. Vibrant red tiled roofs, golden bell towers and tall green cypress on azure hills shone under the lamplight.
     “Look, Mother, isn’t it lovely?”
     The old woman opened her eyes and looked long at the tile. She smiled, “Bring it to me,” then closing her eyes, as if exhausted from the effort, her voice drifted off. Helen set the tile next to the flowers, then sat at the bedside gazing at the slight figure, holding on to the limp hand of the woman who had been so strong, so severe, so demanding. She did the best she could. That’s all anyone can ask, isn’t it? The weight of grief about to descend, she got up, went into the hall, picked up her bag and went up to the little room at the top of the stairs.
       She was taken aback, but not entirely surprised to see that, there too, everything was as it had been when she left at age eighteen: high school banner above the mirror, jewelry box on the dresser, faded pictures of Einstein and Leonard Cohen on the cork board over the white and gold provincial desk. Her bed under the dormer was still covered with the quilt her mother had made as a sixteenth birthday gift. She slid the dusty board behind the dresser and stuffed everything else into one of its empty drawers.
     She switched on the lamp in the shape of a sunflower, hoping the warm light would fill the dreary room and empty feeling within. From her bag she took out a small embroidered pillow, a silk melon flower and her book of hours—familiar things she knew would settle the rising tide of sadness and unease.
     Three things about the book always comforted her. Each page was bordered in gold and richly decorated with designs of ivy intertwined with bright cornflowers, daisies, columbines and wild strawberries. Then there were the twelve small, jewel-like vignettes of peasants going about the monthly labors. Third there were prayers and verses for designated hours of day and night. Although she did not consider herself religious, it had become her practice to open the book when the church bells rang out at the canonical hours across every town and village.
     Helen carried the book to the window, opened the sash and read the prayer for the end of day into the silence, with the moon rising above the darkening fields below.
     When at last she lay on the bed, her thoughts turned to the clock shop, imagining it had all disappeared when she left it that day: the stately house, the warehouse full of clocks and the odd figure of the man inside. She smiled at her imaginings and at the old man’s claim that the clocks stood ready to tell what they “know.”
     She felt, at the least, the Italian clock would remind her of her island home, and though she could not believe the clock would tell her anything, she didn’t entirely disbelieve it either.
     She dozed off and on throughout the night, getting up several times to check on her mother, but had been in a sound sleep when she heard the sound of coughing early in the morning. She bolted out of bed and down the stairs. 
     “Mother, I’m here. Are you okay?” leaning down, she kissed her mother’s cheek and reached for her hand. The coughing became so intense and lasted so long that it frightened her. Helen went for the morphine, took the liquid up into the dropper, opened her mother’s lips with one hand, and with the other emptied the few drops onto her tongue. When the coughing subsided, the old woman opened her eyes and turned her head to focus on the mosaic tile and the bright zinnias. She looked at her daughter and smiled again, “Helen?”
     “I’m here, Mom. I came in last night. Do you remember? Mary told me you’re doing well,” Helen lied, “and what I needed to do to take care of you. Here, let me fluff your pillow.” She straightened the sheets and set up the nebulizer.
“I’m going to make you some hot tea and toast.”
     When Helen got back with a tea tray, she removed the inhaler. Her mother opened one eye and tried to form words. Helen heard them only as unintelligible whispers. 
“What are you saying, Mom?” Again, she heard whispered sounds. After a third attempt to interpret her mother’s wish to be heard she said, “I love you too,” choosing to believe the words had been, “I love you,” though her mother had never before spoken them to Helen.
     She sensed the old woman drifting off to somewhere further away than sleep, her breathing becoming a watery sound. She carried the tray into the kitchen then returned to hear the breathing had become a loud gurgling. A call to Mary confirmed it, “It may be the dying process has begun,” she had said, and offered to come over, but Helen refused.

     Dying process…no! She did not want to believe the hour had come. This is what I came for, but not already, not so soon.

She thought if they had more time together, her mother would have said, “I missed you, Helen,” and asked, “Why did you stay away so long?” She remembered that on the flight back, she had hoped they would not have that familiar conversation again, but now she wished they had been able to talk about it—or about anything.
      “I told you before, Mom,” she would have said. “I found a home in Italy, and my work is there.” Was there. Even if I go back, I have nothing to write, nothing to say. She felt her inspiration had gone, with no idea how to get it back. She had once heard a successful writer say, “I have a million stories in my head, and will never have enough time to write them all.” Helen had not even one, and believed she never would again.

     All through the day she read to her mother at the appointed hours from her book, to the sound of that breathing she knew she would never forget for the rest of her days. She would also remember her mother’s smile when she saw the gift of the mosaic tile. Helen thought of that smile as both a welcome home and a blessing on the life she had chosen, if not forgiveness for having left her mother alone.
The breathing faded into silence as Helen read the verse for vespers:

     * What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbors, saying unto them: Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost.
    Phone calls were made, a funeral arranged, a memorial service planned, a burial endured. Then there were legal and financial obligations, and the orderly ritual of sorting through the things in the house and the things in her heart. There were mementos her mother had held dear: a ceramic rose candy dish, a glittery angel, neither of which had ever meant anything to Helen—until now. Yellowed papers in boxes and closets, and the pictures, cards and letters found in a desk drawer—ones she had sent to her mother. She burned them in the fireplace on a snowy night, praying in her own way that any resentment remaining in the house over those many years would rise up with the smoke into the clean, cold air above. 

     Through the months of winter, she was left with thoughts of loss and of her mother’s long years of loneliness. She also dreaded that her inspiration was gone forever—that which had always sustained her and kept her from despair. She sat in the quiet and cold of the room at the top of the stairs, in the house she thought she had escaped, under the grey skies, an ocean away from the light and blue.
   Then, one early February morning before sunrise, Helen felt a turning within herself. She moved her bed and few belongings to the front room downstairs where the southern exposure would allow the light to linger—so short were the days now in winter. There she could also light a fire to warm her. She took her book of hours from the place it had remained since the night of her mother’s death. She opened it to find the miniature depiction of the labor for February—a peasant woman at a beehive holding a honeycomb. She closed the book and lit candles which burned until dawn.
   The next day, Helen returned to the clock shop and again walked the long aisles. She stopped at the place where she thought she had seen the Italianate clock. It was not there. She walked half the length of the shop to the desk, expecting to find the strange little old man napping. Oh, it’s here! At the counter behind the desk was the clock with its pendulum gently keeping time.
   A calm came over her and, at the same time, a feeling as if awakening from a long sleep.
     Seemingly out of nowhere, came a voice, “You’ve come for your clock, then,” more a statement than a question. “It’s ready to go.” When she turned toward the voice, she saw, not the old man, but a younger one about her own age. He did not look like he belonged in what she had since thought of as "that fairy tale of a shop."
     “Oh, yes…actually I did come to see if the clock was still here, but…where’s the old man, Earl? How did he…how did you know I’d be back?”
      “I’m Earl, Earl, Jr., remember? It’s just me here now. My father died a few years ago. I’m trying to keep the shop going, but there isn’t much interest—or demand these days.” He went behind the counter and placed the clock into a box. “This is a special one.“
     A few years ago? “No…it was only…, ”Helen felt as though she would melt away—light-headed and confused—the tranquility she at first had felt dissolved in that instant. “What?…I mean, when I was here before the old man told me about this clock. I can see how he thought I might be back for it, but…I don’t understand…that was only a few months ago.”
     The young man smiled, “That was me, Miss…Helen, right? You spoke to me that day. We talked about the clock, and I knew you would be back because you loved it. Well, no matter! Here you are now, and you will have what you came for.”
     “No matter?  It was not you…it was…the old man. He said it was his father’s shop…and….Am I dreaming or…? ”
     “We are all dreaming, no?”
     “Yes…no, not now, but…I…”
     She noticed the younger man did not have the local accent as the old man had. She felt drawn to him, and for a moment, their eyes met. It’s all strange… but in a way familiar now, his smile, his kind and shining eyes and the clock. She said nothing, picked up the box and felt again as she had when she first came here—which seemed a lifetime ago—this other dimension or whatever it was—and again imagined the shop would disappear into thin air the moment it was out of her sight.
     Holding the box close to her, she slowly walked away and out into that silent stillness before a snow.

     The clock was beautiful. She ran her fingers over the case, tracing the gold line on the glass, then placed it above the fireplace. She spent days in the front room—in reverie—what to do, where to go—back or forward. She didn’t know, but, for now, she would not set the clock into motion. She would simply live in its silent company. 

     On the threshold of spring, she awoke as if she were preparing to sail out on a faraway adventure. She picked up the key, wound the clock and set the pendulum into motion. In the following days, when the clock chimed, she would read the designated prayers at the hours of daylight, and often during the hours of night.
      As the chimes sounded, she sometimes felt herself drift into another realm of no place and no time. There, in silence and at peace, she existed until all manner of dark and light beings began to flash and flutter before her—some in images like holographs, others heard in voices, heard in whispers and secret thoughts. When they came, they came like a swift, incoming tide—surreal, filled with beauty and sadness, old regrets and new life—muddled and intertwined—as in a dream.

     There was the image of a man come back to his childhood home to tell of his wanderings to an empty room, and the voice of a woman obsessed with the starry sky then brought back to earth through the suffering of others. She thought the thoughts of a therapist whose saintly lover left her a gift, and of a husband left alone to endure memories of all that was lost to him. She saw the shadow of an enlightened soul becoming a truer form of herself. She heard a mother’s grieving for her lost son on sacred ground. She felt the confusion of a young actress who was deceived by desire for what she thought was love. There was a vision of a teacher whose broken, irreparable things became her strength.
     Were they beings who had once owned the clock, lost in time—waiting to tell their tales? Were they conjured out of Helen’s own imagination? Or did they emanate from the eternal minds of men and women who, like the Greek hero Odysseus, had found within themselves ways of contending with the trials they encountered—wandering on their way home—to a place of rest?
     Not each day, nor all at once, but over the course of the following year, she saw them, heard them, felt she had become them. She understood them, loved them. She dreamed their dreams and was in the dreams—hundreds of them, maybe enough to last a lifetime. She would speak as them and for them.

     When Helen returned to her azure island home, she was at peace, coming to rest in her love for the beings and the truth of their stories she carried inside her. She sat by a window gazing once again upon the turquoise sea and began to write them down—one by one.


* "What man of you, having a hundred sheep…” from Luke 15. 4-6, The Bible King James Version.

Monday, December 26, 2016


The beads had broken and scattered over the backstage floor. They had been her mother’s—four strands, with a tiny crystal between each rose-colored iridescent bead, and a gold filigree clasp. She remembered gazing at them, touching them, rolling them in her small fingers, as she sat on her mother’s lap. That was so many years ago.
When she was 21, her mother had warned, “Don’t marry that man,” but she did. 

On her wedding day, only a few months after her mother had died from an aggressive cancer, she had begged her father, “Don’t let that woman sit next to you where Mom was supposed to be,” but he did.

On her honeymoon, under a clear blue sky on an island beach, she lay on her tie-dyed scarf, the sun beating down, with a cool breeze off the surf as the tide came in. She called to her husband as he walked along the waves. “Don’t be long,” but he was. She waited alone until the sun was going down—the wind chilling her to the bone. The once clear blue sky seemed to resemble her transparent scarf, now wrapped around her shoulders—fading blue, streaked with gray and yellow, which made her cry.

Since then, he had been “disappearing,” leaving her to wonder and worry: Where does he go? How long will it be until he returns? Does he ever realize he is missed, or even that he is expected back at all? Doesn’t he remember that he intended to finish fixing that door, that he was supposed to meet me for lunch, that he will miss dinner with the family—again? Whenever she tried to figure out the how and why of it, her thoughts raced to a vanishing point. She told herself it didn’t matter after all.

What worried her most was her husband's patients showing up when he might not be there to receive them. One day the few remaining appointments were cancelled, and he “retired” from a dwindling career. Later they learned there was good reason for her husband’s seemingly inconsiderate antics. Finding the reason did not change things much, even with medication and therapy. It could not be fixed; She would have to adjust to the new reality—and struggle to transform her denial into acceptance, her impatience into tolerance, and her resentment into understanding—the contraries! 

These were the thoughts that arose in her as she looked for and collected the scattered beads. She had brought in some of her mother’s jewelry for the high school girls to wear in their roles as aristocratic, Victorian ladies: the beads, broaches and earrings. One of the careless girls tugged at those strands of memories, sending the beads into the shadows behind the stage curtains. Christina would take them to a shop for repair. The beads would be back on all four strands—like new. What was wrong with that girl anyway?

She liked finding use for what she had salvaged from her childhood home in a forlorn, upstate New York town. Besides the jewelry, she had a yellow Bakelite clock in the shape of a teapot hanging in her kitchen above the stove. There were six ruby red wine glasses, a set of dishes trimmed with dogwood flowers, hand-painted Italian bowls—arranged in the glass-front cabinet, as her mother kept them. Most cherished were old letters and cards she had found in her mother’s desk after the funeral—touchable memories to take in her hand, hold to her heart for comfort  when she could not mange be accepting, tolerant or understanding.

Driving home this night, she kept thinking, Things are breaking, coming apart, irreparable. That very morning, as she dressed for the long day, she had brushed against and dislodged the small plate hanging on the wall—the one her mother had given her before entering the hospital for the last time. On the sky-blue and white memento, written in silvery script was: “Baby Christina Marie - Born November 10, 1974 - 7 pounds 3 ounces.” She left it shattered on the floor.

Almost home now, she loosened her fingers on the wheel as she drove down the tree-lined street. She recalled the sense of freedom she had once felt, driving east on the Massachusetts turnpike to her uncharted life—to all that was still ahead of her, singing out, “Boston, you’re my home.” 

Later, she found she had to get away from her new home when, once too often, her husband didn’t show up for dinner, or she had to make excuses to angry patients, or he had forgotten to call for heating oil, and she came home to a frigid house. Then there were those maddening, one-sided conversations—constant interruptions, with unrelated questions and non-sequiturs until she had to laugh or go insane. Who am I living with anyway, Salvatore Dali? She usually laughed, but when she could not, it was time to flee.

She would pack up the car and head west with her two small children to visit her father, but that also meant seeing the woman he married—the one who had seen fit ,without consideration, to take her “rightful” place as the new wife next to Christina’s father in the church pew—the one who ever-after resented the futile request of the motherless bride.

Once, during one of those spontaneous trips, that awful woman had called Christina selfish and disrespectful when she had said, “I’d like the kids to eat before Dad gets home. They are usually in bed by eight, and it’s been a long day…with the drive.”

“Well, your father won’t be here ’til eight-thrity, so they’ll have to wait. It won’t kill them to not get their way—for once!”

Christina had already laid a crisp white cloth, as her mother had always done. She began to set the table with the her mother’s dishes, she found pushed to the back of the kitchen cabinet. The plates were pure white with a border of green ivy. “I don’t think he would mind if the children ate early, Charlotte,” she tried to reason, and called the children to come to the table, but before her words out, there was the sharp sting of Charlotte’s hand across her cheek.

“You never could show respect. Well, you don’t get your selfish way around here anymore!”

Christina dropped the plate she was holding, put her hand up to her face and blinked back the hot tears welling up, so the children wouldn’t see, but they heard Charlotte’s harsh words. They saw the broken plate and their mother lean over to pick up the pieces.

Charlotte grabbed plates already on the table and the shards from Christina’s trembling hands. She tossed them into the trash can. “There! I’ve been meaning to throw those old things away.” She removed a set of drab brown dishes from the cabinet and held them out to Christina. She pointed to mismatched glasses on the shelf: a Coke glass, one with Peter Pan and the Darling children flying away, and three others painted with watermelon slices. “Now, finish the job, and we’ll wait for your father to come home!”

Christina mechanically went around the table with the dishes and glasses., taking solace in thoughts of her mother’s thin-stemmed, ruby-red glasses in her own cabinet at home. Can people be replaced like broken china? In the quiet of night, she returned to the kitchen, took the plates out of the trash and put them in her suitcase, intending to mend the broken ones when she got home.

She loved her father deeply, despite his betrayal and “o’er hasty marriage” where,” the funeral baked meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables,” lines she had quoted from Hamlet to her husband on the day of what she had referred to as the “unholy union.”

Thoughts of the incident lingered as she parked the car. She shuddered at the memory of it, but hurtful as it was, she also remembered that, when her father arrived home that evening, he had smiled, hugged her and said he was glad she had “come home.” It never felt like home again without her mother. Home…is it a place or a feeling?

She was glad the day was at an end, and that there was a parking place to be had.  Gathering up the bags in the back seat. she heard the rustle of leaves from the chestnut tree at the curb’s edge—a welcome in the balmy night air. She stopped and looked up the front steps with a sigh, worn out and on edge. At least a small weight had lifted with her director duties over for the year. She climbed the steps to the front door, and up the staircase to the second floor landing, where she faced the two rooms: one was open to the shadowy office where streetlights cast dark reflections. Branches and leaves danced on the ceiling and walls, like a crazy light show in the room in the abandoned room.

She pushed open the other door to the living room with her foot and dropped the plastic bags containing a plaid smoking jacket, a blue chiffon dress, brown suede heels, a silver cigarette case, a blonde wig, a straw handbag, a bunch of yellow paper roses, a wooden box with jewelry and a pink satin bag containing the broken beads.

She had intended to go straight to bed, but the sofa looked inviting. Besides, she was too tired to walk the extra few feet to the bedroom. She flopped down, grabbed the remote and found a favorite old movie. Staring at the TV screen, her mind drifted to a meeting with a friend a week ago—the worst day of her life.  As they walked along the beach, the tide rolling in over the deserted, narrow shore, 

Christina told her friend the news she had heard that day at the dreaded doctor’s appointment. There was a long silence.  Then her friend had said, “If we could see things from the highest perspective, it would all be good.” It was thoughtless and rude of her to say that. Hadn’t she just heard the bad news? 

For many years, the women had confided in each other, discussed everything from babies to books. They had pondered whether life had any meaning, and, if so, what it could be. They would look at each other and say, “It is what it is; it will be what it will be.” But now it was different; she knew what was to be.

Together they had read about karma, considered it a more rational alternative to heaven/hell, or nothingness. They neither entirely believed, nor disbelieved that souls chose the circumstances of their existence before birth—ones that would provide the context to live out their karma. They agreed everyone’s life seemed to have theme and pattern, with recurring questions, and challenges to guide them, maybe even a destiny, but also there were choices to be made in life, informed by increasing consciousness and self-knowledge.

Still, Christina thought for her friend to have suggested that anything could be good about the diagnosis was wrong. Is this my destiny? Did I choose it? Can I change it, fix it, get well? Is the highest perspective heaven? And why do I have to sink so low to get there? As thoughts crowded in, she looked around at the cluttered room. She didn’t know what to believe.

Her husband shuffled in and stood in front of her. She was surprise to see he was still awake. Usually, he would be on the sofa asleep or already in bed. After twenty years of marriage, there was no still predicting what she could count on him for, yet he loved her and she loved him; that was never in question.

He was not unfaithful. He was not unkind, and he always wandered back home to her. It had just taken a those years of adjusting and lowering expectations to realize that she could depend on him only for the things he was able to do, and not always for those she wished for or needed. Is it part of my karma, or his? Her mind fogged over with the mystery of it all. She was happy to see him and grateful for those things he could manage.

“How’d it go?”

“Oh, the kids did a great job. We packed the house, and they loved it, but I’m glad it’s over.” Though she was still upset about the broken beads, she didn’t have the energy to tell him about it.

“Want something to drink? There’s some leftover pizza.”

“No, I’m fine. Hey, are you coming with me tomorrow?”

“ Ehh…what time?”

“My appointment’s at two o’clock. I’ll be home around one.”

“I’ll go with you,” he said, padding back into the kitchen then came back with a glass of cranberry juice and a cold piece of pizza.

“I…I don’t think I can eat….”

“I’m going back to bed,” he interrupted, and walked away.

“Okay…I’ll be there in a few minutes,” she called back, wondering whether he would be around the next day, go “AWOL,” as the family came to refer to his absences.

She leaned back against the soft cushions and closed her eyes, listening to familiar banter between Tracey and Hepburn. When she opened them again she saw “THE END” in big white letters on a grainy black background. She roused herself, and, though exhausted, she dreaded another sleepless night. She sat up staring at the bags on the floor, thinking again about high perspectives, low places, broken beads and dishes, karma and cancer treatments.

She felt she didn’t have the strength to undress, but picked up the nightgown she had thrown at the foot of the bed that morning. She saw the shattered pieces of the plate on the floor, and turned away to eased into bed edging back toward her husband until her legs touched his, as was her habit.

Tomorrow is another day, but not an ordinary one. Images of her children’s faces appeared. It had been the hardest thing telling her family—their sadness and apprehension of grief. There was a long silence. Her daughter was in tears, and her son said, “I want you to get well.” Her husband put his head down.

The oncologist had told her she would not get well, and would be “in treatment” for the remainder of time she had left. Since then the talk was only of practical matters: treatments, appointments, and the details of “getting things in order.” She shielded her son and daughter from most of it, taking on the burden of their pain, as well as her own.

Still, she had hope; she had the will to live, if not the strength to think about whatever she had to endure ahead. She wasn’t sure how miracles fit into her life’s theme, her free will or her destiny, but she believed in prayer…and in miracles.

It was another uncharted place—being caught between hope and despair.

“Out of everyone I’ve ever known,” her friend had said, “you are the bravest, strongest, most positive person.” Funny though, she didn’t feel strong, positive or even like a person—but rather like a shadow of the self she tried to build and sustain in this lifetime. She felt parts of herself were missing, wavering, like the quivering branches on the ceiling of the abandoned room at the top of the stairs—a shadow of something real, but not real.

“You love life and live life,” her friend had said, as if 

Christina needed a reminder, especially now. She also was left to hold on to the other thing her friend said, “It’s not over ’til it’s over.”

She closed her eyes, listening to her husband’s quiet breathing, as these thoughts, feelings and images swirled together, faded into the dark future and then into sleep.

In the hospital waiting area the next day, she gazed out the window at the vast, clear blue and cloudless sky.

“Christina,” a nurse called and came over to stand in front of her—blocking out the blue. “We’re ready for you; come on back.”

She got up, looked at her husband—lost child—not even pretending to be strong for her. He smiled and lifted his hand. She carried his smile with her down the long corridor and into the sterile room.

The nurse got her settled on a bed turned up to a sitting position and prepared an IV drip of a bright red liquid. Christina was grateful to be opposite a window with a view of blue sky.

In the closed palm of her hand, she held one of the rose-colored beads. She loved the feel of its smoothness. It had nothing to do with the rest of the beads now. It was beautiful and perfect all on its own.

She closed her eyes and imagined being bathed in the glow of its color and felt herself to be looking down from a very high place—a place where she could see everything exactly as it was

Thursday, May 26, 2016


He had given away every last penny of an enormous inheritance—fifty-thousand here, ten-thousand there. He was homeless, but that didn’t matter, only that he missed being able to help others, as he once had done. I found this out when a stranger called me and said Kenny had given him fifteen hundred dollars and told him to see me for as many therapy sessions as the amount would cover. I remember thinking at the time: Inheriting a fortune is everyone’s ultimate fantasy, and Kenny just handed his out like cupcakes at a birthday party!
So, Kenny must have gotten the windfall from his Aunt Molly who had never married, and, as I remember, there was no other family. I met her once when we went to stay at her place on Martha’s Vineyard. And what a place it was! I guess he gave that away too.
“Wait, now let me get this straight,” I said to the caller. “Kenny is broke and homeless, and you are using his last $1500 to get help from me?”
“Oh…well, yeah…I guess… I mean, he said you’d be able to help me. I wasn’t sleepin nights since my dad died, and a lota other things happened too—lost my job, that kinda thing. Kenny said you would help me, and I believe him. He gave me the money before he was homeless though.”
“Yes, I see, that makes all the difference,” trying not to laugh out loud, or cry. I felt bad for being sarcastic, but I don’t think he noticed. “Let’s see what I’ve got here," looking at my calendar. “Next Tuesday at 2 pm, is that good for you?”
“Sure thing, Doc.”
I jotted down his contact info gave him directions, “Okay, see you next week.” After we hung up, I was sorry I hadn’t asked at least a couple of million questions I had formulated in those few minutes on the phone—some of the same ones I’ve had since I last saw Kenny. I knew it would be odd asking my new client questions when we met for the first time. He was the one looking for answers, but I figured I would get at least some of mine answered over time—that is, if he even showed up.
Not that I didn’t want to help the caller; Sam was his name. It’s what I do. I ‘m a therapist, and a pretty good one at that, but, I already resented Sam in a way for taking Kenny’s last dime. I was looking forward to finding out what had happened to my lost lover—lost in every way it seemed. We hadn’t seen each other in a few years, and we didn't part on good terms. It all got too bizarre and too complicated to deal with—even for me.
I told him he needed therapy, but I wasn’t going to be the one to help him sort out his life. That’s when he said, “There’s nothing to sort out, so fuck off.”
It was the last time I saw Kenny. I left in a huff never wanting to see him again. When things had simmered down, I tried to get in touch with him again (and again) over the next few months—texting, calling, emailing, and even writing a good old-fashioned letter—no response. I finally got up enough nerve to go to see him; I really wanted to see him, but he had moved and couldn’t be found. The city is a big place, but it’s still incredible to me that a person can’t be found—even if he doesn’t want to be found. He obviously did not want to be found.
So, Sam did show up for his appointment. We shook hands, and I invited him into my inner sanctum—a quiet room with big cozy chairs, muted colors, diffused light coming in the windows in the day time, and warm, soft lighting at night. I had created a place where my clients would feel comfortable and safe (I despise those words, “comfortable” and “safe”), so they would tell me their life stories, or at least the part of the story before the turning point, or after it as the case might be.
“Hey, Sam, before you tell me about yourself, I’d like to ask something about Kenny. Do you mind?”
“No, Doc, no, I don’t mind at all. Whadaya wanna know?”
“Well, you said Kenny gave you money before he was homeless, but how do you know he is homeless now?”
“Well, I saw him a few days after that night I was at his place...the night he gave me the money. Boy, was I surprised when he did that, but I wasn’t surprised to see him on the streets.”
“Oh? why was that?”
“Well, 'cause I didn’t even know he had any money.”
“No, I thought you meant that you weren’t surprised to see him homeless. Were you? I mean…you were friends, right?”
“Not surprised…no, we weren’t exactly what I’d call good friends or anything like that. He hung out with us at the shelter downtown, so we all knew ‘im, and he was always so nice to everybody. But when I saw his place, it was a mess, and I kinda felt I was in better shape than he was, and he didn’t look good."
“So, you are homeless too, Sam?”
“Oh, no, no, just kinda down on my luck these days. I have a place, but went to the shelter for meals sometimes after I lost my job, and that’s where I met Kenny. He talked to us…never seemed like he belonged there though. I kinda told him my sob story, and he took me back to his place that one night—probably on the worst night of my life. That’s when he gave me the fifteen hundred and told me to call you. I went back to thank him again a coupala days later. I knocked and rang the bell, and just as I was ready to leave, the guy across the hall comes out and tells me Kenny didn’t live there anymore. I saw him on the street about a week later, and he told me he was homeless. I lied to ya,Doc, ‘cause Kenny…he really gave me two thousand dollars cash, but I used five hundred of it for my rent. I asked him to take the rest of the money back ‘cause he needed it more than me, but he wouldn’t. That’s when he told me he inherited money and had given it all away. He said he only wished he had more to give. He said he didn’t need it.”
“Why didn’t you just keep the money and not come here?” I asked, sort of wondering out loud.
With an almost child-like innocence, Sam said simply,       “Well, Kenny told me to come to you; that’s why he gave me the money. He said you would help me.”
“I will certainly do my best," and we began the session.

It felt strange—taking Kenny’s money for my services. I offered to charge half the amount for the sessions, so Sam could go beyond the fifteen weeks it would cover at my regular rate, but he wouldn't hear of it. As the weeks went by, I didn’t learn more about Kenny, but I learned a whole lot more about Sam. He was a simple soul and honorable. I knew I would keep Sam on when the money ran out and hoped he would agree if he felt he needed more time. He was making progress though. He had found a job to keep him afloat, so he didn’t have to go to the shelter for meals, but told me he stopped by there from time to time to see the old gang, but there was no sign of Kenny, and, apparently no one else had seen him either.
“He just disappeared.” Sam said.
“And how did you feel about that? I asked but was thinking, Yeah, I get it. That’s what he did with me too—just disappeared.

Kenny and I met when we were at Columbia, finishing up our degrees—his in philosophy and mine in clinical psychology. It was love at first sight you could say. I was amazed to realize there was such a thing—unexplainable—that kind of attraction. He was intriguing, quirky, quiet mostly—not the small-talk type, but I liked that. I thought later, if I had wanted “normal,” I would have looked for “normal.” No such thing anyway. I know that for a fact!
His hair was dark and wavy, and his eyes were kind--a soft, misty brown. His skin was clear and smooth, like a boy's, but it was his hands that made an impression. They were perfection—a monk’s hands I thought—made for writing on parchment with a feather pen dipped into a pale blue glass ink well. Later, I saw that his handwriting had a grace and elegance about it, reminiscent of those Medieval illuminated manuscripts. And he did a lot of writing— all by hand. He wrote on various, obscure and abstract subjects—scholarly critiques on philosophers or theologians. He was intrigued with the lives of saints. All those original ideas and imaginations he had, and expressed them in such beautiful images, precise analogies, lofty metaphors and clear logic.
Who cared if it were only hormones or pheromones? The attraction was immediate, and I knew he felt it too. I don’t know how he would have described me, or what part of my body he thought was perfection, if any, but the feeling was mutual, passionate, intense—and ultimately doomed. Looking back, there must have been a genetic code for disaster in the nature of our relationship. We were too different, and he gradually ascended, or descended, depending on the way you looked at it, into an unreachable place, intent on becoming a saint himself.
It wasn’t going to work. His mind was like a black hole—sucking everything into it—and nothing escaped—all the facts, knowledge, ideas, probabilities and possibilities. Mine was more like a sieve, holding only what I needed to get through each day—the rest sifted through. Anyway, it’s how I came to think of “us”—opposites. Despite the chemistry, or maybe because of it, it all came crashing down.
“You know what your trouble is, Kenny?” I said during one of our increasingly heated arguments. “Despite your knowledge of philosophy and religion, you don’t really believe in anything, do you?”
We were sitting on his bed in the little room he was living in, piled high with books, strewn with empty wine bottles, half-written papers on his desk, ashtrays crammed with cigarette butts. He stood up, bare-legged in his white boxer shorts. I was already sorry I said anything, and wished we were still in the bed together, so I could put my fingers through his dark, matted hair and wrap my legs around his. He put his hands on his hips, made a half turn away, then back again, glaring at me with those eyes, always shining with an unearthly—maybe even heavenly look. Quietly, almost in a whisper and with a look on his face as if he just had a revelation, he said, “It’s not that I don’t believe in anything. I believe in everything!”
It was hard to have a saint for a boyfriend, as it must have been hard for him to have me, a born therapist, analyzing him in a way no therapist would if she wanted to keep her client. But I wasn’t his therapist; I was his lover and his anchor—I believed that. I had this weird thought—I was him trying to get in, and he was me trying to get out. I needed his ability to soar above it all—to what he might have called the “world of ideas” which encompassed the whole of creation—the only reality to speak of, according to Saint Kenny.
  If he needed me at all, maybe it was for my ability to focus on one thing at a time, to plan and to follow through. Kenny said we complimented each other. He said I thought inductively— from the specific to the general, and he thought deductively—from the general to the specific. Boy, was he deep, which I figured made me shallow. I guess I was shallow in my ambition for my own practice and to make a good living, shallow in my wish to own a piece of real estate in some remarkable location, shallow for my need to take vacations from time to time. My desire for and my pleasure in material things, and all the rest of it, was in direct opposition to what Kenny stood for.
  Like I said, we were doomed.
That became clear after those few days at his Aunt Molly’s. To me, it was paradise— the island in the sea, the blue sky above, brilliant sun pouring through a dream house. I made a big fuss about it. I told Kenny I could see us living life there. I was like a mystic in ecstasy, but not the kind Kenny read about in his Medieval texts. I knew he could have been just as happy in one of those remote, monastic beehive huts on Skellig Michael, off the coast of Ireland —happier most likely.
I snuggled up to Kenny on our first night there. The ocean breeze was cool, the full moon over the ocean—visible from our bed. The fragrance of beach roses and hedge wafting in, and our bodies warm together. I put my head on his chest—which I also thought was pretty perfect.
“What do you say, Ken? Let’s live here. I’ll set up a practice. You could write too, maybe finish a book in the quiet of this place—that book you’ve been working on.”
“It isn’t a book; it’s my theories and my musings.”
“You’ve just been musing all this time, really? Didn’t you ever think of sharing what you’ve learned, what you know?” I’d been wondering about where he was going with his work for a while, along with a lot of other things I didn’t dare mention.
“No, I haven’t thought of it! I’m happy doing what I’m doing, and I don’t want to leave the city. I like the noise and the grit of it and the people—all of them coming and going, even the ones lying on the subway grates. I’ve been thinking about doing something else too, instead of living only for myself. There is so much need out there.”
“You mean like I do—live for myself.” I thought I knew where this was going.
“No, I didn't mean that; you do help people, and that’s a good thing. I wanna do that too.”
“I didn’t know you thought of me as helping anyone. I mean, I certainly try.” I was touched by his comment, as if he needed me for an example of “good,” as he called it. “But, I don’t think I am the greatest example of good, that’s for sure.” I reminded him, “You’ve read, and know so well, the best of the best for inspiration on that score: Socrates, Plato, Augustine, Aquinas, I mean…”
“Well,… I have their ideas, yes, and now I feel like I need to do something with them.”
  I silently agreed.
     When we got back to the city, at first he continued to live in his dark room, thinking and writing. He did some work part time in a library, earning enough to subsist—subsidized by me, which I didn’t mind. I admired his ideals, and I loved him, which meant I made sure we could both live the life I wanted—dinners, plays, weekend getaways—none of which seemed to matter much to Kenny.
Soon after, he took to walking the streets at night encountering all sorts of people who needed help. I began to question his judgement when he would bring back a bag lady or some other disheveled person with wild eyes.
"You may be giving these poor souls something to eat or a coat to wear, but are you effecting any real change in their lives?" I had to ask.
“It doesn't matter if they change their lives,” he almost shouted. “That’s your goal, not mine. I’m happy to help in small ways in a moment of need. You manipulate people and want them to live as you do.”
“You said I did good before, and I thought you meant it. Why are you being so hostile now?“ That’s when I said he needed a therapist—the last thing I ever said to him—a long time ago. We parted ways, and that, as they say, was that. I eventually came to accept that it was all for the best. Kenny was right; I did want him to live as I did, because, I didn't want to and couldn’t live as he did.
Exactly on the fifteenth week of the sessions with Sam, he told me it would be his last one. It kind of took me by surprise, but I had to agree; he was in a good place. “Well, you let me know, Sam, if you need to come in, and remember what I said—no charge, okay?”
  “Yeah, yeah, sure thing, Doc,” he said in his usual matter of fact way.
I had come to look forward to our sessions. I liked Sam. He had a natural kind of wisdom about him, and it didn’t take much to get him to think about things in another way, and he was able to make some changes because of it.  He had been in a rut, but was easily budged out of it. I would miss him; having him around made me feel close to Kenny, strange as that sounds.
“Okay, Sam, you take care, now."
Sam hesitated, then he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. “What’s this?”
“I dunno, but Kenny said to give it to you when we had our last meeting, so here it is.”
  I still can't remember Sam’s leaving the office. I stared down at the envelope in my trembling hand, and fell into one of those cozy chairs to open it. So much time had passed, but no love lost on my side. Was it a suicide note? I found myself thinking crazy things the moment before I opened it, desperately hoping it was the impossible—an invitation to meet him somewhere, anywhere. I wanted to look into those eyes one more time. Those old feelings and memories had been stirred up over the past weeks—rushing in and swirling around flooding my head and heart. 

That was two years ago. I’m settled into my new practice on Martha’s Vineyard. The letter Sam brought from the law firm was a shocker. Kenny willed Aunt Molly’s house to me! When I went to see the attorney, he said he had met with Kenny only once, and didn’t know that much about him, except that he had been sick, even before the inheritance from his aunt. That explained his giving a fortune away, but why will the house to me, after all that time?
I may never know, but I was hoping to find some clues here among his papers left in the room we slept in overlooking the sea: the desk piled with his writings —and shelves full of books, boxes overflowing with his papers—all there for me to live with—alone.
Today, I found that letter I had written to Kenny years ago. When I unfolded it, a small piece of parchment fell out. On it, in his beautiful handwriting, he had written:
     I cannot live with you
It would be life,
And life is over there
Behind the shelf.* 

     Wasn’t that the truth! But the lines weren’t exactly a clue—just a confirmation of what I already knew, but now I can’t get those them out of my head.

*I cannot live with you/…” from “In Vain” by Emily Dickinson in Poems by Emily Dickinson, First & Second Series, edited by Mabel Loomis Todd and T. W. Higginson.