Sorting out letters and piles of my old canceled checks, old clippings, and yellow note cards that meant something once, I happened to find your picture. That picture. I stopped there cold, like a man raking piles of dead leaves in his yard who has turned up a severed hand. Still, that first second, I was glad: you stand just as you stood-shy, delicate, slender, in those familiar clothes. The sight of you stunned us all. Well, our needs were different then, and our ideals came easy. Then those two long years I carried this glimpse of you, there, to choke down my fear, prove it had been, that it might come back. That was before - before we drained out one another's force with lies, self-denial, unspoken regret, and the sick eyes that blame; before the treachery and, say it, before we met. Still, I put back your picture, Someday, in due course, I will find that it's still there.
Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.
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