Alan packed two sandwiches out of habit and left both in the bag. He had spent the past year correcting himself: one cup, one towel, one ticket. On this occasion, a second sandwich could simply be lunch tomorrow.
The lake was quieter than he expected. It was a weekday in April, too cold for swimmers and too early for most of the boats. He carried a folding chair to the patch of grass where he and Jean had sat for years. Someone had cut back the reeds. The view was wider, and he resented the improvement.
Jean had preferred the left-hand chair, though she could never explain why. Alan set his in that place. Then he moved it a foot to the right, feeling foolish. Grief had made him superstitious about arrangements nobody else would notice.
For a long time, he watched the water. A dog retrieved a stick and seemed astonished every time it was thrown again. Across the lake, a small boat moved slowly enough to look motionless. Alan had expected to cry. Instead he felt irritated by a radio someone was playing near the car park.
He took out the sandwiches. They were cheese and pickle, Jean's favorite. His own preference was ham. He laughed once, unexpectedly, at the unnecessary sacrifice. Then the tears came, quietly enough that the dog continued its work without concern.
A man walking past asked whether he was all right. Alan almost said yes. Instead he said, “I'm missing my wife.”
The man stopped. “I'm sorry.” He waited a moment. “Would you like company or a bit of space?”
“Space, I think. Thank you.”
The man nodded and went on. Alan watched him reach the trees. He was grateful to have been offered both things as acceptable choices.
In the months after the funeral, people had spoken about moving forward. Alan understood what they meant, but the phrase suggested a direction he could not locate. His life was not a road with Jean somewhere behind him. She appeared in cupboards, jokes, shopping lists, and the way he still turned to comment on a bird.
His faith had not spared him the strangeness. He believed that death was not the end of love. He also missed the particular sound of her key in the door. A promise about eternity did not make the afternoons short. He had begun saying this honestly to a friend from church, who listened without defending God from the conversation.
The light changed on the water. Alan finished one sandwich and wrapped the other. He spoke aloud for a few minutes, telling Jean about the neighbor's new fence and their granddaughter's driving test. He knew who could and could not answer. Speaking was a way of giving the memories somewhere to go.
Before leaving, he folded the chair and shook the crumbs from his coat. He had survived the visit, though survival seemed too grand a word for sitting beside a lake. He might come back next week. He might not. There was no correct interval between difficult outings.
At home, he put the spare sandwich in the fridge and called his granddaughter. She answered on the fourth ring, breathless with news. Alan sat down at the kitchen table and listened to the life that was still asking for him.
