Letter to Chloe

Hi, Clo. It's April 1, 2016. You would love this place. It would be your ideal spot, just beside the lake. The geese glide by, and I've been told there are beavers, but I haven't seen any yet. The ice is still jamming the banks. Things move fast around here — I mean things like water and ice. One minute, the chunks are all bunched up, jostling for position; the next minute, the lake is clear.

You would love my wood-burning stove. It's small but powerful, and it heats my whole space with a furious crackling, threatening to bust out beyond the grill. It's not difficult because my whole space consists of one room, about 400 square feet.

I never would have searched to rent in this area if I hadn't taken a leisurely drive along Lakeshore Road that wintery January day. I wouldn't have taken the leisurely drive if I hadn't been out in that neck of the woods. I wouldn't have been in that neck of the woods if I hadn't accepted an invitation to speak at the university's Faculty of Agriculture, which is out this way, on Wednesday, January 20, at 3:00 p.m. I almost backed out because it was the same day you went into palliative care at the hospital.

I did honour the commitment, and I spoke about my favourite topics: entrepreneurship, single motherhood and how to survive it all. As I left the campus, I knew it would be a long night at the hospital, so I decided to wend my way back unrushed, slowly driving the 30-kilometer speed limit along the winding road that hugs the lake for miles. It brought me peace.

It was almost 11:00 p.m. when I got back to my parents' home from the hospital, and I began searching Airbnb for somewhere to live. Not having a home of my own hadn't bothered me until now. When I'd sold my home a couple of years ago and left to experience life in another part of the country, I'd been happy to have no possessions, with nothing tethering me to anywhere. Now I realize that's not possible. Our past always calls us back. And back I came — to love and care for you.

I knew your death was close, and I felt the need to stay close to home. I wanted a place to hang my hat, a place to help me heal, a place close to loved ones and close to water. At 11:05, I found this tiny cottage on the shore of a large lake. It was 20 minutes to downtown, 20 minutes to family and friends, and 20 feet from the water's edge. The lake is four to five kilometres wide in front of the cottage and is clean, full of fish, and swimmable. The farmers' market, the pharmacy and the grocery store are just minutes away by foot; so are the train and bus into the city.

One email exchange, and it was secured for the whole summer.

The owner of the property, John, lives in the big house 30 feet away. Both homes are tucked away from the street, face the lake and are surrounded by mature trees and gardens. Years ago, John had used this cottage as his office. Imagine that kind of commute to work — 50 paces and you're there! If I had been able to envision a place to live, and if I'd had the ability to imagine such a country setting only minutes from the downtown core, I would have imagined this.

My precious 400-square-foot space contains a queen-sized bed at one end with two small night tables on either side; a simple, two-and-a-half-foot by four-foot table along a window that functions as my kitchen; a love seat; a solid-wood, round table with two wooden Windsor chairs; and the crowning glory of the place, my wood-burning stove. The "kitchen" consists of a two-burner hot plate, a toaster oven and a mini-fridge. That's it. The bathroom is literally my washroom. All washing — dishes, clothes and self — happens in there.

I love it.

The first thing I did when I arrived was remove all the blinds. John rolled his eyes, commenting that other tenants had complained of too much light in the morning. Imagine, Clo — is there such a thing as too much light?

I have no complaints.

John came for dinner the first two nights. I knocked myself out creating gourmet meals with my two little burners. The firelight and candlelight provided the rest. I struggled — successfully, I might add — to keep my hands to myself. The atmosphere was thick, heavy and dripping romantic. You've gotta understand, we've been communicating for two months non-stop — emails, texts, FaceTime, phone calls. Barriers came down so quickly. I had fallen for him long before we actually met.

He's at home now, mercifully. I glance out the window and see the firelight dancing on his ceiling. I know where he sits: always on the same sofa, in the same spot. It's nice to know he's there, yet I like being here on my own. It gives me the space to grieve in private whenever I want to. And right now, I want to.

I'm 55 years old and living in one small room. No more possessions, no job, and no Chloe. I'm on the floor, moaning. Grief takes me deeply into my body. It overwhelms, suffocates, rumbles through me like an earthquake that shakes and shakes and threatens to bring the house down. Only there's no house. There's just one human being trying to cope. Physical, sharp, real pain in the centre of my being. The grief is deeply physical. Already it's been six weeks since you've been gone.

On the other hand, here I am, 55 years old, and I can finally rest in peace. Your suffering is done. Thank God. What an ordeal for you and for all of us. It's over. You can continue, live, grow and explore. I can sit in my small studio with its magnificent, large view and begin to heal.

I feel you nearby. I just glanced out the window, and night has fallen, hard and dark. When did that happen? My new world is slow. The quick pace of outside things continues to startle me. Moments ago, I was watching the ice crowd and toss; now, only the flickering lights of the seaway are discernible. There's nowhere to go. No one needs me. It's like learning to walk again. I remember I used to do this, used to have my own life, but I'm not quite sure where this new life is going.

I remember years ago, arriving at my office — we called it the kitchen. I'd arrive really early, leave late and realize that I hadn't felt the sun on my face for even one blessed moment that day. That made me sad. It was part of the tough sacrifices of trying to raise the three of you and run a business at the same time.

Now I have time to sit with my face to the sun as spring begins to unfold in this beautiful spot. I have the time to notice how the clouds scurry across the sky, and the fact that the birdsong begins long before sunrise (the first robin sang at 4:22 this morning), and how the wind blows. A growing habit of mine is to determine the wind direction every day, and to extrapolate the coming weather. Today, it's a south-westerly breeze of about 12 knots. If it's an easterly wind, I expect stormy weather tomorrow. John, a lifelong sailor, talks about the wind a lot. I never actually thought of the wind before, except in relation to how much it would mess up my hair.

I rise early and watch the colours fill the sky long before the sunrise. When the official time of the sunrise hits, the show is already over. The bleachers are empty; the roadies are stacking the chairs, the crowd is gone and the air is silent. Not a hint of birdsong.

We have a pair of mating ducks that reside on our lawn, an elusive rabbit that seems to have taken up residence in my...