The Postscript

So Judy sat quietly, and so did I. And no one joined us on that cold winter night. And that is how it has been ever since.

For all the convenience of online communication, nothing can compete with a cup of coffee and a real talk. Because if someone is willing to take the time for a cup of coffee, I think it’s a good sign they would like to be my friend.

I try not to make New Year’s resolutions. All the studies show that motivation wanes by February—if we’re lucky. Changing my life by flipping a switch on December 31st is not a feasible plan.

That night of the winter solstice, when the sun set so early and the dark lasted so long would be a good time to remember the animals who had no way of knowing when the sun would be closer or when the days would be warmer or when the darkness would not last so long.

When I think of presents, I don’t think of stress. I have given my young nephew inappropriately dangerous gifts (what young man does not need a pickaxe?) And I’ve given joke presents (my friend, Andrew, at one time had an impressive collection of shower caps). I love giving presents to pets. I love hearing my mother exclaim, “What on earth…?” as she opens a box.

Usually within hours, my glands will swell, and I’ll have trouble swallowing. By the next day, I have to breathe through my mouth, and I’m going through boxes of tissues. You know the drill. There is nothing unique or interesting about my transformation into a gecko.

I made a total of one quilt, and it took me nine years. I was not, I’m happy to tell you, working on it for nine years. I bought the fabric, cut out the pieces and assembled some of them. Then I stuck them in a box and then let guilt work on me for eight and three-quarter years.

Mama also does other things, things that Felix really does not like. Mama yells when Felix is on the table (Mouse pretends he does not see him). And—worst of all—Mama gets out the nail clippers and cuts Felix’s beautiful curving claws.

I am now in San Miguel de Allende. No one comes to SMA, as folks call it, for spring break. It takes too long to get to, and it is too far from an ocean. This means that the people who are here have plenty of time to come and go and are not particularly interested in beaches. In other words, they are old.

Not all goals are quite this satisfying. Most goals involve a little dithering. The plan has to be altered. There is a step backward after two steps forward. There are obvious failures when, as optimistic as I try to be, I know I have hit a setback.

Peter sits about ten feet away (which is almost as far as a person can be from another person in this apartment). I have learned to write while he works on projects. (He is replacing the tips of his hiking poles right now. “Bang! Bang! Bang!”) He has grown accustomed to me sometimes talking to myself and sometimes talking to him and not being sure when—or if—he should pay attention.

My parents have known Andrew since before he had a driver’s license. But even knowing someone for almost 50 years does not prepare you for getting pilfered Door Dash on your 90th birthday.

My husband, Peter, is convinced our cat Felix was much younger because he was so small when we adopted him. And it’s true, he became much bigger and more muscular once he started getting regular nutrition. But Felix knew nothing about living in houses or living with people and, to be honest, we knew nothing about living with Felix.

I am sure that if a person wanted to, they could have a great time figuring out what ails my sister and me, but I don’t put too much stock in dreams, other than to note the emotions that come along with them. I have woken in terror over something that seems—upon waking—completely harmless. And then I have a dream where I am cheerfully disposing of a corpse.

Once I get to the airport, there are more annoyances. People walk slowly, three abreast, oblivious to the fact that they are not moving at the prevailing speed. Everyone takes too much carry-on luggage. People talk too loudly on their cell phones. Younger people sit on the floor and spread all their possessions around them, as if they plan to take up permanent residence in the airport waiting area...

I dig through my closet. I dig through my drawers. I try things on. I discard things. I start to feel emotional, wondering if I am a person who belongs in New York at all—a person who is incapable of dressing herself. 7PXYhszVrJ2IJn8ALTn1

I know that eating too much sweet corn will make me feel bloated and too much squash will make me positively sick. But how does one resist at this time of year? And so, I don’t. I eat way too many vegetables, and then I go back the next week and get more.

Now my sister was laughing. My father looked skeptical, as he did with a lot of new information discovered on the internet and not otherwise verified. My mother just looked very surprised. I thought it was hilarious. But we were all looking at Katy in a new way.

I spend almost every day alone, sitting at my little maple desk. But lately, I have had more fun than usual because I am working on a new book and I am writing about a lot of things I know nothing about.

Isabelle was only three at the time; her brother, Beau, was not even born. She was patiently explaining to her baby doll in the next room, “You are not a bad baby. You just make bad choices.” Isabelle rarely makes bad choices. I have made more than my share.

Most of my cousins were older than me. They were cool and listened to rock music behind closed bedroom doors and brought boyfriends to the farm and paid no attention to me whatsoever. The cousins younger than me were small and annoying and not able to keep up. You can afford to be selective when you have so many cousins to choose from.

I honestly cannot think of anything less relaxing than walking much, much too slowly in a circle with other people who are also walking much too slowly, trying not to step on the heels of the person in front of me. It’s kind of tortuous.

Emily Anderson is a wonderful artist who paints scenes from nature in Minnesota. Unlike many northern landscape artists, her work is never dreary. Her scenes of the natural world just exude joy and a sense of discovery and—it might sound odd, but it’s true—humor. Her work makes me smile. I want to be in whatever place she has painted.

This was not an undercooked broccoli crunch. This was not wild rice. This was the crunch you might experience while eating a sandwich on a beach when the wind was blowing. I looked at my delicious meal. I took another bite. “Crunch.”

The hour passed. I opened my eyes. Even though the chapel is lit only by candles and the windows are stained glass, it still seemed darker than it should be. Then I heard a crash of thunder. I looked at my watch. 7:00 exactly.