Douglas called for quiet.
Gregory laughed.
Jennifer said something I couldn’t hear.
Life filled the house.
Messy.
Unfinished.
Changing.
I touched the pocket of my sweater.
Inside was the last page of Robert’s letter.
I had begun carrying a copy when I traveled.
Not because I needed his permission anymore.
Because I liked one sentence.
Keep it only if it gives you a life you still want.
I had thought he was writing about the house.
Maybe he was.
But standing there on the porch, I realized the words applied to almost everything.
Traditions.
Obligations.
Old habits.
Fear.
Even grief.
We are allowed to ask whether the way we are living still belongs to the person we are becoming.
And sometimes love survives the question.
Sometimes it becomes better because we finally ask it.
Brenda leaned her head against my shoulder.
“You know,” she said, “next year we should all go somewhere together.”
