The ironic thing is, Nate didn’t attend Yale. He received his bachelor’s, master’s and PhD from two other top private colleges and universities. But I can still remember the Saturday morning that he walked into our kitchen in Chicago wearing this sweatshirt. I thought he was playing a joke on me, or was giving it to a colleague, but he wore it to coffee and began to wear it regularly on weekends when we’d head out for coffee, brunch or an afternoon glass of wine. My dad ribbed Nate when he wore it to Saugatuck the first time, but that didn’t deter Nate: he wore it to the local coffeehouse, and I realized he loved the attention he received by wearing it, the stolen glances and admiring whispers, the silent adoration from total strangers.

I yank the sweatshirt off the hanger, which spins in a circle, jangling loudly.

I walk out of the bedroom and into the room I’ve been using. There, on the dresser, is the letter from the Dragoon Lady. I grab it and begin to head outside but stop and head to another bedroom. I stick my head inside the room and see a piece of the old wood floor from the closet that is being turned into a bathroom. Next to it is a wallpaper sample I am considering, one of Michigan lighthouses.

Something old, something new, I think. I grab both and finally head downstairs.

When I step onto the patio, I see a huge fire. Trish hasn’t just started a bonfire, she’s started an inferno.

“I don’t want the fire department back again today,” I say.

“Settle down, Adie Lou. I’ve got it under control. This is a ceremonial cleansing bonfire, so it has to be rip-roaring.”

Trish’s face is red, and the fire makes her look almost tribal.

“What did you gather?” she asks, finishing her glass of wine. Her words are now a bit slurry, and it sounds as if she just said, Whadjougrabber?

I show her, and she tells me to take a seat in one of the two iron chairs she’s pulled in front of the fire.

“Just speak from the heart and tell me what these represent and why you need to let them go,” Trish says. “When you are ready, say ‘I release you. I am done.’”

I start with the noise machine, which simply melts in the flames. I move to the wallpaper and wood, which burn easily. I hold up the sweatshirt in front of the fire, and I can see Nate’s face clearly.