I stitched new cushion covers for the wicker chairs in a blue-gray that matches the sea in winter. I rehung the photographs Winston and I took on our drives along the coast before the illness, all the weathered shingles and harbor boats and steamed-window diners he loved.
I work from here three months of the year now instead of weekends. My assistant in Philadelphia manages the alteration appointments when I am away, and the arrangement suits us both.
I take long walks before breakfast along the boardwalk where Peter used to collect smooth stones and pieces of rope he believed could be useful someday. I think about that boy with affection and about the man he became with sorrow. They are not incompatible.
His letter is still in the drawer. I take it out sometimes and read it again. The handwriting is careful, the same handwriting that used to write my name on birthday cards with crooked block letters when he was small. There is real shame in the sentences, not just the performed kind. I know the difference.
