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Show Moon -188 The next morning Anne phoned for a cab and went to the Northwestern campus. She couldn't remember the name of the building she wanted or if she really even wanted that building. She sat down on a bench underneath an avenue of elm trees which strained at the top like hands not quite able to touch. Some of the trees had tarry scars where the limbs were missing. Soon these trees would die, and eventually, they said, all the Dutch elm trees in the country would die. She sat on the bench, her cane resting next to her. David walked down the aisle of trees, indistinct at first, then closer, closer, and she was sure it was him. He was backlighted by the sun; he was in halo, golden and tall, and he was smiling as if he'd already seen her. She patted her hair, wished she'd worn shoes that would show how slender her ankles had remained. She lowered her eyes, feeling shy. What would she say? She lifted her chin, deciding to trust that she'd do it right. He was so close now she could see the silver streaks in his hair, the slight trembling of hands (for she doubted he'd managed to stop drinking altogether). His strides were long, wood-plane defined. He hurried. To where? Why should he hurry now? And to hurry and not be looking and not to notice her- No, this is another story that won't bear finishing. There's no way for it to come out right. So it is better that I have decided this didn't happen, that Anne sat alone with some memories made golden by time. What a gift memories are! They let us revise our history according to who's in charge. Serious Illness, for example, a dictator in the present, writes us a past of physical vitality to remember with vicarious delight. Cruel Marriage remembers us a wonderful lost love. |