Dad is not doing well these days. He forgets things and is not steady on his feet. I feel I need to check on him more and more often. It was a hectic summer; it seemed to fly, and I’m not even sure why, and now the back-to-school rush with kids signing up for dance keeps me busy. I have someone coming in once a week to teach tap and gymnastics, and the kids are flocking to her classes. I love ordering all those little pink shoes and tights. Always have. But now, the fall feels settled, Frank’s semester up and running, overloaded as always, and today I fully realized the shift in light—a quick venture into Star Market in the late afternoon and by the time I got home, it was dark. People complain about the early darkness (they order special lights and so on), but I love it.

Everyone says I come through the house at dusk, clicking first the hall lamp and then the one by the green chair, in the exact same order, stopping and lighting the candles on the dining room table, adjusting the door to the hallway just so. “Clockwork,” Becca said. “Obsessive.” And I said, “What about dependable? What about reliable?” Clockwork, that was my father, and how interesting the importance of time to the men in my life—one whose work was all about precision and trying to keep it moving forward second by second, and one whose career is all about reaching back and digging (except when personal). Some days, I feel like I am like that tiny screw in the center, holding the hands in place.

October 23, 1981

Even though we occupy the same space, Frank and I politely excuse ourselves if we bump in the hallway or when lying side by side in the bed we have shared for years. It is October, my favorite kind of breezy, sharp day, the kind that makes even an old dog like Rudolf frisk about and nuzzle into the fallen leaves. I walked him while all of the little things that have bothered me lately were building in my brain. By the time we had made our big loop and I turned the corner to see our house, it all came together. The ringing of the phone and no one there. Odd errands at odd times. The agitated jingling of his pocket on top of my doing nothing right. The kiss good night barely a brush against my cheek, if that. The name of a colleague that comes up a little too often, and then suddenly, not at all.

October 31, 1981