ALWAYS AGAIN Thursday, July 24, 2053 (Henry is 43, Clare is 82)

ALWAYS AGAIN



Thursday, July 24, 2053 (Henry is 43, Clare is 82)

HENRY: I find myself in a dark hallway. At the end of the hall is a door, slightly open
with white light spilling around its edges. The hall is full of galoshes and rain coats. I
walk slowly and silently to the door and carefully look into the next room. Morning
light fills up the room and is painful at first, but as my eyes adjust I see that in the
room is a plain wooden table next to a window. A woman sits at the table facing the
window. A teacup sits at her elbow. Outside is the lake, the waves rush up the shore
and recede with calming repetition which becomes like stillness after a few minutes.
The woman is extremely still. Something about her is familiar. She is an old woman;
her hair is perfectly white and lies long on her back in a thin stream, over a slight
dowager’s hump. She wears a sweater the color of coral. The curve of her shoulders,
the stiffness in her posture say here is someone who is very tired, and I am very tired,
myself. I shift my weight from one foot to the other and the floor creaks; the woman
turns and sees me and her face is remade into joy; I am suddenly amazed; this is Clare,
Clare old! and she is coming to me, so slowly, and I take her into my arms.

Monday, July 14, 2053 (Clare is 82)

CLARE: This morning everything is clean; the storm has left branches strewn around
the yard, which I will presently go out and pick up: all the beach’s sand has been
redistributed and laid down fresh in an even blanket pocked with impressions of rain,
and the daylilies bend and glisten in the white seven a.m. light. I sit at the dining
room table with a cup of tea, looking at the water, listening. Waiting.

Today is not much different from all the other days. I get up at dawn, put on slacks
and a sweater, brush my hair, make toast, and tea, and sit looking at the lake,
wondering if he will come today. It’s not much different from the many other times
he was gone, and I waited, except that this time I have instructions: this time I know
Henry will come, eventually. I sometimes wonder if this readiness, this expectation,
prevents the miracle from happening. But I have no choice. He is coming, and I am
here.

Now from his breast into his eyes the ache
of longing mounted, and he wept at last,
his dear wife, clear and faithful, in his arms,


longed for as the sunwarmed earth is longed for by a swimmer
spent in rough water where his ship went down
under Poseidon’s blows, gale winds and tons of sea.

Few men can keep alive through a big surf
to crawl, clotted with brine, on kindly beaches
in joy, in joy, knowing the abyss behind:
and so she too rejoiced, her gaze upon her husband,

her white arms round him pressed as though forever.

— from, The Odyssey
Homer translated
by Robert Fitzgerald