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November 10
Dear Charles,
My plane is leaving in a few hours, but I had to send these pictures off to you before I left. For some reason I cannot explain, I was seized this afternoon with a desire to go through my trunks and find the photographs I thought were there. I am sending you these two—the one of us together in the courtyard and the shot of the lake taken from the outdoor chapel. I’m sure that the one of us was taken on the last day, just before we had to leave. How extraordinary what the memory got right and what it didn’t. You look much as I had remembered you (do you still have somewhere that wonderful old Brownie that is in your hand?). But I look very different. I didn’t remember the Bermuda shorts or that my hair was quite that light ever. Nor that you and I were the same height. Your arm is around me, but just barely, and I’m unable at all to meet the gaze of the camera. I seem to be studying my feet.
Aren’t the photographs concrete proof that somewhere in time we did actually meet and know each other? What did we know? I wonder. And what did our voices sound like?
This archaeological dig has consumed nearly all my afternoon, and I’m not even packed yet. I must run, but I wanted you to have this. One day I will find the bracelet. I’m sure I must have it. I never throw anything away.
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