I looked up at him, startled by the power in his voice. And he shook his head. “But it was as if I heard the music and could not play the notes, could not even make manifest an orchestra—and saw my triumphant vision, my large self”—he smiled sadly—“nothing but a shadow. And my world reasserted herself in the old dear habits, and I crept back into myself—my smaller self.”

I gently withdrew my hand. “To her. You crept back to her.”

“You are touched by genius. You are made of different stuff than she,” he whispered. “And of different stuff than I,” he finished.

I could not speak, could not think to speak, but turned from him and walked to the window, but there was the sea—no— back to him where he waited—no—I sat down finally, back in my chair. The room was so quiet. The room was so empty, though we stood inside. I shuddered and could not look up.

“Nell?” he whispered, and placed a hand on either arm of the chair.

“Yes,” I replied. He stood above me. For one moment then, the whole world rested there within the circle of that chair, my head bowed against his, his arms about me where I sat—we were, for an instant, a house.

And then he was gone.

12 March

As I walked this morning, I looked up through the gaps in the tops of trees and thought I peered through the broken slats in the roof of the sky. It is a freezing-cold day, the ice thick across the harbor. Early this morning, gray streaked over the pink clouds and I watched the weather snatch up the bright morning and carry her off, her hem leaving a line across the sky—a small reminder of a day in summer, the dawn and the blue and the high white clouds floating up above.

Is gray a countless color? There is the black-gray of the water, granite gray, this ink’s black will turn to gray with time, and I, too, am a gray thing, for I am the shoreline now; I am rock beat by the cold tide. Now the big flakes fall into the sea—water unto water—and what was white darkens in that cold single kiss. In the hour of snow—

He had said, “Nell,” and I looked down where he stood among the rocks waiting for me, though we had not appointed for each other. And though we had no meeting, I had stolen from the house into the white coverlet falling over the day—I had walked straight out into that dim scraggle and hush, the snow emptying her silence into the sea’s regular beat, and though I searched for him, I did not think I searched, so that when he called and stepped from below the boathouse, where he stood, I looked down into his upturned face and saw how the snow fell on him—and I smiled. And that was but December.

13 March