She hadn’t written her death. Who would? She did have goals for the next year, but the only place her true heart-wants were known was there in the life she wrote.

My life would pass not in written wishes, but in days lived fully.

WITH THAT MOON LANGUAGE

By Hafiz

Admit something:

Everyone you see, you say to them, “Love me.”

Of course you do not do this out loud; otherwise someone would call the cops.

Still, though, think about this, this great pull in us to connect.

Why not become the one who lives with a full moon in each eye that is always saying,

with that sweet moon language, what every other eye in this world is dying to hear?

Twenty-six

Twenty-six

NINE MONTHS LATER

The hum of conversation is punctuated with laughter and the occasional louder voice. The crowd in the Atlanta History Center moves as a single mass down the line of photos and panels of information about each woman who had been the Woman of the Year from 1960 to 1969.

Hutch stands at the far back of the room, greeting patrons, shaking hands, and smiling that damn soul-opening smile. His longtime girlfriend, Hillary, stands next to him with her hand on the small of his back; she wears a long pale blue silk sheath dress and a smile that seems born of red lipstick and satisfaction. She is at least a decade younger than me, and I find one hand covering my stomach and the other my cheek, as if I can conceal my years with my hands.

I miss him. With a singular and desperate ache, I miss Hutch O’Brien.

I also know that there are some things that cannot be fixed or healed. Forgiven: yes. Healed: no. I see my need for him as the heart-scar I bear for once choosing safety over love; for choosing a legacy of perfection over my own heart’s knowing.

It’s been nine months since I left Rusty and moved part-time to Bayside, Alabama. I drove to Atlanta today for the history center opening of the new “Woman of the Year from 1960 to 1969” exhibit. There is a special cocktail party for patrons of the history center and the families of the honored women. Dad and I have come here together. The road between Bayside and Atlanta has become as familiar a landscape as my childhood backyard or anything one stops noticing because what was once new has become ordinary.