We sat on her porch, enjoying the first breezes inspired by Isabel. As always, her doors are open; the house full of light and life. Her gardens planted and tended in memory of her husband. I sipped fresh gazpacho, swallowed the last bite of my second pastry and thought, what a giving, nurturing woman.

ìHow are you doing?î

ìSome days okay, but other days, so so.î

ì Donít tell me that.î

ìWhy?î

ìBecause, you look so good; I want everything to be okay.ì

ìSo do Iî her voice rose, ìbut I miss my guy. We were married twenty-two years. If Iím busy Iím all right. I ran a workshop on Star Island and I hurried around all day. Working, talking, teaching, but then I came home and … .
Sometimes I flop down and do nothing.î

ìCould I ask you a favor? I have a friend, her name is Ann. Her son died when he was seventeen and her husband died two months ago. Whenever I ask her how she is, she cries. Sheís so overwhelmed, she cried as we talked about water in her garage. As if her wet floor made life impossible. When you said you feel better when you are busy, I thought you might be able to help her. She rattles around alone in her house with nothing but memories.”

ìYou could say that about me.î

ìBut youíre moving, doing, creating. Look at your house, the spirits are free to fly in and out. There is no movement in her dark house. Her spirits are locked up tight.î

ìIíll call her if you want.î

ìSheís English. You know, that stiff upper lip. Iíll give her your name and if she can, sheíll call you. At least Iíll have done something. Yesterday I snapped at her. I told her, î You said before, itíll take time. You canít rush it, Ann. You want it all over, but it takes time.î

Still crying, she looked hard at me and said, ìIíve been through worse. Iíll get through this.î

I should have hugged her.