“You’re welcome to visit, of course, but I’ll have to leave you to entertain yourself, because I have things that have to be done.” The words are working better now, both in my mind and in my mouth; it has been such a long time, but they, too, like the memories, seem to have lain close to the surface all these years, and have come back surprisingly easily.

I rinse out my teacup and head for the door. “There are about seventy acres on the property, if you feel like going for a walk. Apart from that, there’s not much for you to do.”

“That’s all right. I’ll have a chance to relax.” She smiles at me, and I find myself smiling back. The muscles feel stretched, unaccustomed, and yet it is natural to return her smile. There has never been anyone here before to smile at, or anything, really. It is pleasant, as a change.

On the porch I pick up a basket and the hoe. The early lettuce needs thinning and I will pick enough for a salad for two for lunch. The rest of the garden is still in the earliest, greenest, swiftest time of growth. Almost I can see it changing from day to day, and unless the weather turns it will be one of the best so far.

Quite apart from my need for their produce, I have a tender relationship with the plants. I like to touch them, knowing I helped bring them into being. Today, however, I am distracted, my mind wanders, and now and then I am startled, realizing that I have been touching, picking, weeding by rote, unconsciously. That frightens me, for it has been one of my main pleasures here, the relationship with the garden and the care I give it. To lose that, to do it like a machine, would be to lose everything.

And yet it is an effort to concentrate. I keep recalling the girl in the cabin, my daughter, what she wants from me, what she has brought with her. My hands do the duties of the present, and my mind scatters over the past, wondering about the questions this girl is raising. The memories are clearer now, the portrait of that Abra has some movement and order. But still so little detail.

The order, attempting logic, makes a stab at childhood, but is balked. There are only the faintest of impressions there, forms and images of protected times. With an effort, I suppose I might harden those forms into memories, but there is no need. The impressions are of sunshine and green, smiling and safety, questions and fear, acceptance; a sense of being removed, an observer — but observing what? Of feeling hidden, a secret, unique and alone.