I came to a giant rock and watched the waves smash against its wall, pulverizing into mist. The orange sun touched the horizon. Overhead, the stars were beginning to speckle the dark shell of sky and a flock of gulls keeled near the trees.

It was fully dark when I got back to town. I ate dinner at a vegan place with live folk music, the fruit of the hippie diaspora that had reached Newport decades before, and almost despite myself, I started to relax. The people were friendly there, my tempeh tacos were excellent, and the beer improved my mood considerably. By the second pint I was actually feeling pretty good. The grief had started to unclench its teeth a little.

Eating alone wasn’t always so bad, I had to admit. Nor, for that matter, was waking up in an empty bed or going to the movies in the afternoon or sitting in a coffee shop watching the traffic go by. On some level, if I was really honest with myself, I was beginning to relish my newfound solitude. I enjoyed making the small decisions about which way to turn on the beach or what restaurant to try. I liked the slight puzzle a single man my age seemed to pose. I couldn’t exactly admit these feelings to anyone—I was supposed to be in despair after all—but out on the coast, away from my daily routine, I could at least begin to admit to myself a glimmer of optimism was kindling.

After dinner I wasn’t ready to head for the cabin yet, so I wandered around Newport, fending off my nagging guilt about my own lack of unhappiness. Maybe I should have taken my little vacation elsewhere, I thought. Someplace new, someplace unhaunted by memories. Passing the bookstore-café and the brick-oven bakery where we used to eat, I was reminded again what a selfish person I was simply for being alive.

Once I got back to the cabin, I realized, I’d be inside for the night, so I took my time meandering around. I peeked into a smoky bar and window-shopped at the knitting store, which was closed for the evening. I coaxed a cat from a hedge for a little petting.