Fingers of Light

Gordon has chosen the spot on the bank above the town park a dozen times.The green expanse of the park's ball field is a blazing backdrop to the deep shade of evergreens and understory shrubs where he parks the car.A hundred feet below, one arm of the East Aspetuck River loops through trees, s-curving to a reunion with its other branch, temporarily diverted from each other to the north; twins told to play separately for a while.Tires in soft mud, Gordon sets the parking brake.On the other side of the car, a steep hill rises to a graveyard at its crest.The late afternoon sunlight stretches like a cat across the park and pokes through the woods.This time of year, day segues into night with a long exhalation.In winter, darkness arrives like a flipped switch.He releases the seat lever to fully recline, bringing the head rest to a position where it serves his purpose.Cracking the window, he folds his arms across his chest and closes his eyes.He can't sleep for long at home; the house is filled with Martha.When he awakens, the realization that only the ghosts of her movements remain fills him with an ache he can't abide.Now, as he becomes drowsy, an image of Martha rises, chopping carrots or toweling her back after stepping from the shower.A long mole shaped like Candlewood Lake traced along her spine.They used to joke that she needed to model in real estate ads for lake homes.Snatches of past conversation sometimes surface-innocuous stuff like her asking him to drop letters at the post office or mumbling about his socks in the hamper turned inside out, her yelp for joy when the Red Sox won the World Series.Lately she's been quiet; he's worried his memory is fading.He fears one day he'll no longer hear her.Car tires sing from the other side of the hill, traffic traveling a north/south route.As Gordon relaxes, his hearing becomes more acute, sparrows' chirps giving way to the cry of a red-tailed hawk over the ridge, the whine of a chain saw down the valley.The resin tang of the pines and hemlocks reaches his nose.Sometimes there's a ball game on the field, the crack of a bat splitting the air, but not this evening.If Gordon suspends his longing for Martha's physical presence, he can summon her warmth like a radiant cloak.He basks in it, sometimes for a few seconds, sometimes a