“Sometimes I think he’s disappointed in me for not keeping it together. I imagine him looking down on me and all I see is disgust in his eyes. I’m such a mess now.” She rubs her forehead. “He’s never seen me like this. He doesn’t know this person.” She presses her fingers into her sternum. “I’m not sure he’d want to know this person. I’m not sure even I do.”

“He’d know better than anyone what suffering looks like. If he’s looking down on you with anything in his eyes, it’s compassion.”

Kavita peers into Hawthorn’s eyes. They are dark and soft and open. Wells of empathy.

“I hear what you’re saying. And I’m not trying to be resistant. You obviously know what you’re talking about. You’re further along than I am. But I can’t see things the way you do. I’m not sure I ever will.”

“You’re broken-hearted. I get it. I am too. The thing about broken hearts is they’re still open. Wide open. Almost more than they can take. But, still open. It might not seem like it now, but trust me, life slowly starts seeping back in through the cracks. Then one day, you’ll be doing something, and you’ll suddenly realize your life’s taken a new shape. Like it was always meant to.”

“I’m a long way from where I was meant to be. It feels like starting over. I don’t know if I can.”

“Sure. But, I mean, you’re here, aren’t you?” He nudges her knee. “Making a new friend.” His smile is infectiously broad.

“Just like in kindergarten.”

“I’ll remember to bring the Play-Doh next time.”

Pausing, she tucks the blanket underneath her ankles, which ache from resting on the floor for too long. Then she gazes out the window at the snowfall that floats and settles on the front bushes wrapped in burlap. The snowfall transports her back to her childhood, to the forts, the snowball fights, the snow angels, the tobogganing. Sunil always loved winter. Anchor pulls. She feels the impulse. Resists the urge to squeeze. Looks at the Band-Aids covering the scar on her palm.

“Can I show you something?” she asks.

“You bet.” He pulls down the sleeve of his sweater and covers his tattoo.

“Promise not to freak out?”

He raises his hands. “Yogis never freak out.”

“I haven’t shown this to anyone.”

He nods, encouraging her to go on.

She pulls away the Band-Aids. The scab is bark-like and itchy and outlined with pink.

The grin slips from Hawthorn’s lips. “Cooking accident?” He holds her in a steady gaze.

She shakes her head. Feels the unforgiving chill. Observes it. Waits for it to pass. Then she starts replacing the Band-Aids.

“No, don’t,” he says.