Dear Wife(90)

These past four months, I’ve shed a shitload of tears. More than I’d like to think about. But I stand here, in the middle of the church aisle and bawl, and for the first time I don’t feel ashamed of my tears or wipe them away with a sleeve. I let them fall because these are the good kind of tears. The—well, if not happy kind, at least the everything’s-going-to-be-okay kind. I tell myself the Reverend is right. There is grace in uncertainty, and everything’s going to be okay.

Down in the pit, the band starts up a melody, and the notes chase me up the stairs and out the doors, into the bright October sunshine. Autumn makes Atlanta a much more pleasant place, the air dry and crisp and glorious under a bright blue sky. I tilt my face to the sun, letting the rays warm my skin. Maybe this is why people come to church, to feel lighter, to relinquish their fears and be calm, if only for an hour.

I check my watch. Three more hours until a plane carries me back to Pine Bluff, where I will pack up the house and leave for... Somewhere. I haven’t decided yet. But after what happened on that rooftop, I have some karma to set right, and I plan to start here.

I pull out my phone and thumb in the number I memorized on the banks of the Chattahoochee. She may be a thief, but who am I to judge? I know better than anyone that people will do all sorts of things in order to survive.

The line connects, and I recognize the husky hello, that twinge of Spanish inflection she tries so hard to hide.

“Hello, Martina? It’s me. Emma Durand.”