RED SKY AT NIGHT

            Five years after his funeral, my husband joins me on the deck of the river house, our retirement home in Virginia’s Northern Neck.

            He asks, Ready for a beer?

            He doesn’t ask, Where’s our boat? What have you done with Crystal?

            I figure he knows I’d sold it—and for far less than he’d paid. Best not to talk about it.

            We walk down steep stairs, onto a ramp, then along the long dock toward the space where Crystal used to float. We take our places on the Adirondack settee, our seats joined by a wide arm exactly wide enough to hold two bottles of beer and a wooden bowl of pretzels.

            We sit in silence facing the sun setting over water, by habit hoping for the red sky at night that promises a sailor’s delight. Watch as the tide raises the skiff (which I have not yet sold) so its lines slacken and then watch the lines tighten as the tide ebbs.

OR.

            I walk with my dog, another Crystal. Alone but not alone. Down the long gravel driveway to an asphalt road, turn left, proceed a half mile to the state road, turn back. No need to step aside when a car approaches, drivers give walkers plenty of room, and we exchange obligatory waves. Everyone here waves, even strangers. It’s something about country roads.

OR.

            I finish projects we’d planned together: adding a banister to the stairs that go down to the ravine, installing robust storm doors against winter wind, replacing a worn kitchen sink. Then begin projects we dreamt about: building a faux Japanese bridge on the driveway side, planting dogwood trees and boxwood bushes by the garage, constructing, with my brother’s help, a dry-stone wall on the river side.

OR.

            I placate an embittered neighbor who frequently berates me, this time for allowing weeds to encroach onto her half of our shared drive. Sip wine with more amenable neighbors, envying their togetherness. Decline invitations to volunteer at the local library. Do not join a quilting club.

OR.

            I sit on the deck watching the river rise and fall with the tides. Listen to leaves falling from trees and softly, softly landing. Keep an eye on Crystal as he rolls a plastic jar around the deck, excitedly licking away every trace of peanut butter. Observe watermen on work boats as they lift, empty, and reset their crab pots. They wave, too, in a straight-arm, hand-wide fingers-spread salute that I mimic in return.

OR.

            I drive west to Charlottesville with Crystal in the back and watch the mountain sky glow pink, fade into orange, deepen into red. A sailor’s delight, no longer for me. I join crowds at movies, haunt used bookstores, snack at friendly coffee shops, sink into the warm embrace of time-long friends, think about staying for a while.

Equinox, Volume 6, Spring 2024