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But the grief stays with him. And then, on the first anniversary of her death, things begin to change. ———————– December 23 It rained. It’s never happened before. I don’t really know what to make of it. The sky just wept for hours. I sat on the front porch of the beach house, under the tin roof, and listened to it beat down. Eventually I got up to pour a glass of red wine, and to light some candles. By late afternoon it looked like a little shrine around me–candles flickering, a half-finished bottle of wine on the table, and me–staring straight ahead into the gloom, watching the lightning flash its anguish across the grieving sky and listening to the rain pound down like fists on a grave. December 24 All that rain caused a mudslide that came oozing down the mountain and into the back side of the beach house. There’s lots of it. It comes almost up to the kitchen window. So, I spent most of the day yesterday shoveling mud into a wheelbarrow and pushing it through the forest to a. Pat had let go of my hands and stroked my arms in a long and soft way. We didn’t say anything; nothing was clear or decided yet. I knew I could have said no and they would probably accept it. I was curious and tense at the same time and I liked what they were doing to me. Pat’s body was nice and warm, he made me feel safe. I hesitated, was I to do something?Then Pat said: “Do you want us to stop or should we continue teaching you our music? Or do you have to go home? Somebody waiting for you, expecting you to dinner?” I shook my head; nobody was waiting for me (which was true). I said in a low voice “I think I’d like to stay, but…” and Pat kissed my neck and said “But?” I tied to answer “I have never… I mean…” which made them smile and laugh. “We know, Timmy. It’s written all over your face. But that’s alright as long as you let us teach you… maybe time for a new instrument in your life, no?” That was John who said it and he stood up, opened his pants and took them off. Standing in.
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