Saturday, August 13, 11:30 PM. Amy.

Brewer and I have been talking again.

It seems like there was a period of five years or so when we didn’t talk. We were racing the kids out the door in the morning. He had practice or a game in the evening or I had a class to teach. Saturdays were kids’ activities and grading and crashing. Sundays were church and dinner and crashing and napping and TV. Brewer isn’t much of a talker at the best of times, and at those times no one felt like talking.

We’re starting to talk again.

Nobody’s racing anywhere in the morning. We get busy with chores before the sun gets too hot, but it’s not frantic. Some of us, sometimes all of us, have lunch together. The afternoons are lazy. You don’t go outside if you can help it. We take a kind of siesta. At four or five I start cooking. We eat about six. Family time after that, Bible and prayer and singing and games.

It’s what I would have dreamed of a month ago. Brewer gets the kids to bed. I sit on the porch and read or just stare and think.

Later he joins me, and we talk.

Tonight we set a blanket on the grass and lay there watching the stars. Coolidge loved that, snuggling with us and bravely barking away invisible spooks—raccoons or coyotes probably.

We whispered to each other like we haven’t in a long time. We talked about each of the kids, how they were doing, our hopes and fears.

I dared to give him a kiss out of the blue. A kiss unworthy of him. I couldn’t read his expression.

I feel like our minds if not our hearts are coming together again from a far distance. I’d forgotten what that was like. I hope it continues.