I cried in grief for the empty years I had spent without Jo, without friends, and without my work.
I cried in grief for the empty years I had spent without Jo, without friends, and without my work. I cried in gratitude because those workless years seemed to be over. It was too early to tell for sure—one swallow doesn’t make a summer and eight pages of hard copy don’t make a career resuscitation—but I thought it really might be so. And I cried out of fear, as well, as we do when some awful experience is finally over or when some terrible accident has been narrowly averted. I cried because I suddenly realized that I had been walking a white line ever since Jo died, walking straight down the middle of the road. By some miracle, I had been carried out of harm’s way. I had no idea who had done the carrying, but that was all right—it was a question that could wait for another day.
