And, very slowly, I did. With the children settled in their new schools and getting older, I’d walk to my studio every morning, that lovely walk, in all seasons. Out the door of our building, its old tile floor, into the sunshine, good morning to our doorman in his grey-and-maroon suit, starting his job for the day. He, bantering with the colleague he’d relieved from night duty, the two of them talking and laughing, in Spanish. Have a good day, madam! In spring, the leaves young on the tall trees along the river, so graceful, but no, not to the river, instead turning left on 84th, a dip in the street at West End, and then crossing Broadway: bustling babies in strollers, women with grocery bags, the man and his fruit stand (four bananas, one dollar), the other man, the old one, setting up his bookstand, a brief siren’s wail, a man with bucket and soapy water and brush washing his pavement in front of the old hair salon, the Korean nail studio, I would see the girls lined up at their tables, customers already (so early!), and then turning right onto Columbus, and soon, my low shadowed doorway, the iron door, pushed. In the hallway, then, of my studio’s building.

I told you I became a walker here. I forgot to say: I’d stop for my coffee at the shop a few doors away, and then go up, up the stairs (not the elevator!), to my studio — to my space.

I worked on many small canvases over the years, you’ve seen them. Perhaps I was healing. They weren’t my best work, but they were work. I was creating.

I used only oil. I liked its longer drying time, the slow drying allows for manipulation, and minuscule changes, over time. I’d spend weeks and weeks on one canvas, first under-painting, then layering. Turpentine with a rag to thin and refine. Then re-layering. Days into weeks, drying. The mixing with my palette knife. And layering again. And again. Sometimes glazing between the layers, which added more time yet.

I was adding, adding paint, adding layers; a slow accretion of layers. Then I was taking away. And the taking away matters as much as the adding, you know.

I LEARNED TO COOK for the children, for Howard. Simple things: chicken, salad, vegetables. I’d buy groceries on my way home from the studio, and make dinner for everyone when they came home. And evenings Howard sat with Stephen and his homework, I see them still, their heads bent together under the lamplight, at Howard’s desk.

We had found ballet classes for Helena, or should I say, Madeleine Benator found the ballet classes, and Helena thrived again.

I never took my painting, my large painting, out from its covers though. I just couldn’t. I felt I couldn’t.

AND EARLY ONE MORNING in 1985 Howard came into our bedroom with the newspaper, he’d been reading it with his coffee before he set off for work. Jacqueline, he said. He sat down on the bed. Read here, he said.