“Carol, what are you talking about?” Which Anna? Forgive yourself why?
She barely shook her head, with tight lips, as if saying one more word could break something definitive. A nurse showed up at the door and gently told me that Carol needed to rest. I bowed, kissed his forehead and went out into the hallway with my heart, hitting me against the ribs.
A promise made on the verge of death
Three days later, Carol was gone. The house on Maple Street felt empty in a way I didn't know
that a house could feel. His reading lenses were still resting on the arm of the reclining chair. His half-end crossword puzzle was still resting on the kitchen table. But I only heard her last order: Look for Anna.
Anna was my first love. In 1985 I asked him to marry me. The answer came in a letter: “I can’t follow you, Walt. Not if you go far. Please don’t look for me.” For forty years I had believed every word of that letter.
