▲ Water Lilies, Claude Monet, 1917-1919.

Dawn-sniffing bleary he paddles to the center of the lake, among cold lilies floating, fast sleek fishes silver slipping and dew damp branches dripping. Her name runs wild beneath his old tweed cap as he strips petals from an apple blossom, setting them adrift on slow waters.

It’s not a palace of memory, but a cottage.

He asks the wind with words deeper than dark bawdy talk if she still remembers those late mornings of his head in her lap, of his fingers tangled in her hair, of hands gripping hands with toes close together. They ploughed deep their bed between hedgerows of books, stove holding off airchill and skydamp, the smell of a Sunday morning fry-up lingering.

Years passed, turning their questions from ‘Can you imagine?’ to 'Do you remember?’ and, finally, to 'Will we be remembered?’ Now, beneath the wetting drizzle he murmurs,

– I remember love. I remember, love. I remember.

This entry is part of my journal, published January 1, 2013, in New York.