June 14, 2004

The board retreat took place by the waters of Paradise, where we sat down at 9:30 in the morning on a brilliant Saturday and sunk our feet into the lake. The water, cool and full of memories, made me dizzy and restless.

Barbara lived on the other shore, and there we spent sublime days and nights cradled in each other’s arms. I could see her backyard from where we were sitting, and I remembered that autumn we spent together, and how it slowly shed its leaves in the water, yellow and red like her hair.

The sky was infinitely blue that October, and we ate oranges on the wharf in her yard. We looked at the sky and talked about Cohen, and she told me about the lake. She wanted to drift on it, “Like Ophelia,” she said. We held on to each other and I spent the night besides her.

Then winter came and chilled us to the bone. Love died and we no longer understood each other or ourselves. Because I didn’t know how to reach her I was cruel to her, the way boys sometimes are, and my cruelty broke something inside her, a piece of her soul, and she was no longer the same.

I think it was my cruelty that made her kill herself. When I found out about her suicide I held my head in my hands and wept until I couldn’t breathe anymore. I had no tears left after that day, only self-loathing and pain.

Two years have passed since then, but some of her ashes are still drifting on Paradise Lake. For the longest time I wanted to say goodbye, to tell her I was sorry, but I never dared.

So there I was Saturday morning, startled to be back so suddenly and to be reminded of all that. And I was also glad. I needed to unburden my memory and to thank her for what I’ve become. Her death changed me utterly and thought me that people are fragile bundles of sensitivity. She chiseled for me a new body out of pain.

Late at night I sneaked away from the cabin and plunged my pale body, full of sorrow, into the dark waters as a final goodbye. The waters embraced me silently, lovingly, and the night was at peace.