It’s the third Tuesday in March, the day, though not the date, when Jim died. Its essence is off-kilter, like Father’s Day (whatever date it occupies), when I lost my father five forever years later.
After little more than an hour’s sleep and a related cluster of dreams I need to process to write about, I am revisiting last year’s letter, which I hope Jim saved.
March 22, 2018
I was awake long before you would have hoped for me. It snowed yet again, though a far less fearsome Nor’easter than this month’s past three. This morning I was in one of my favorite places, just beyond ocean dunes only miles from home. Somehow we never stopped there together, although we brought our children just north and south of this stretch of the Atlantic.
The sun broke through bruised clouds like a lighthouse beacon, unveiling in a vast murky marsh a single gold-eyed snowy owl who turned to look straight at me before promptly closing his eyes to resume napping.
Subtlety still is not my strong suit. A few years ago I picked up a novel because of the lacuna embraced by its title, The Inheritance of Loss, and discovered an author I wish I’d found in time to pass along to you. …
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