I work on a cover for your final novel. I draw curtains pulled across a stage, showing the fall of the fabric with quick marks of my pen. The sides dissolve into an abundance of flowers. I want to suggest that the play will be engrossing and rich. I put the title of your book at the top, making the words part of the design. I write our names, distinctly, proudly. I wonder if I should allow a gap in the curtains so that we glimpse something of the drama. What was it you said? It is not what we put in the frame that endures. I leave the curtains closed.

There is a vase of daffodils on my desk, a pool of molten gold against the wood. Soon I will paint them. Already, I am beginning to plan my colors. For now, I put my sketchbook aside. I have a few more sentences to add to my story.

13

THERE, IT IS DONE. IN A MOMENT I WILL COLLECT MY pages together and tie them in a bundle. I will put on my jacket and boots and walk down to the river. Gathering up my skirt, I will kneel on the bank and look about me to ensure I am alone. I will dip the first sheet in the water, watching as my words begin to blur. I must wait until the paper is soaked so that it cannot blow away in the wind. Then I will let the current snatch it from my fingers. Only when all the pages have been released will I make my dedication. This story is for you.

My eye travels to the window and I am caught by a blaze of daffodils under the apple trees. I resolve to take my easel outside and paint these instead. I gaze at the yellow, vivid and tangible in the sunlight. You are right. What matters is that we do not stop creating.

Acknowledgments