This week I continue with another excerpt from the book I'm currently writing, What Lies Between Us.  The book follows the true story of a marriage that intersects two cultures--two relational geographies.  

"I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn."~Anne Frank

August 2005

Charleston, SC

Thunder growled outside.  I looked out of my front window and noted the clouds--gray plumes that created a shadowy covering for the day.  I didn't really mind.  It would feel good to be in the house with Emma.  I looked at my gigantic dog sleeping on the sofa. How did I ever become a companion with such a large creature?  At her last vet visit she weighed in at ninety pounds.  Granted she was slightly overweight, but not by much.  Her girth took up most of the couch.  I sat down beside her and rested my hand on one of her velvety ears.  She raised her head and looked sleepily at me, her eyes narrowed.  She siged, then laid her head back down. "We have it good today, Emma.  A cozy day inside, just the two of us."  By that time, the rain came down in sheets, pelting the window pane and blurring the green fronds of the Palmetto Palm gowing stately in the front yard.

I got up and headed for my bedroom.  Today I had two tasks.  The first to neaten up my walk-in closet, and the second to work on the book I was writing.  Lately, writing had begun to surface in my life again.  I'd always had a fondness for words, even as a child. I created stories with my first-grade pencils, my six-year-old fingers grasping the thick roundness, making my letters fit into the dotted lines on the tablet paper.  Then I'd draw a picture with the equally thick crayons--always green, green grass, a blue, blue sky and a brown house with an inverted"V" for a roof.  My stories reflected the lives of the people who lived inside that brown house. Sometimes there would be a stick figure of a Mother or Dad, and a smaller stick figure with dark pencil strokes of long hair added to indicate that it was me.  I'd connect the stick hands to show that those family members loved each other.

And in a very similar way this desire to document and affirm connection is what became the catalyst for me to write again.  And I liked writing as a way to cope.  Living alone was not horrible.  I was learning to radically embrace the reality that Giovanni would be coming and going, weaving in and out of my life again. Really the only aspect that had changed was our roles.  We were now husband and wife.  I had someow imagined that these new roles might change everything--make everything ideal--"my knight in shining armor."  But my medieval prince had left, and I was coming to the understanding that life was what I made of it. Having a husband didn't really change much.  And writing helped me.  Dictating our story supported me in making some sense of life, some sense of us, some sense of me.

Often I could catch myself and think,"I'm happy." One day I bought a pot of red tulips as a centerpiece for my white, glass-topped dining table.  The sun from the sliding glass door poured in, and the crimson bloom seemd to cup the light in its petals.  I stopped and stared at the beauty for several seconds and suddenly realized I was gaining an appreciation for the feel of my own life.