14

Joshua

Month four

June

Dear Joshua,

Hello, my wonderful husband! As I write this, you’re sleeping. Naked, I might add. Your shoulders are so ridiculously gorgeous. I am deeply grateful.

 It’s been strange, trying to imagine you alive while I’m not, trying to think about where you are and how you’re doing, what issues might be coming up. I’ve read some books on grief to try to help you get through this. I know there’s not an easy way, and everyone’s path is different (I hate that line, don’t you? Obviously, everyone’s path is different, genius! Duh!)

 But everyone’s path is different.

 It occurred to me that aside from all the things we do together, and aside from you running, you don’t really have a hobby. (I view the punching bag as more of a coping mechanism than something you actually enjoy doing.) Fly-fishing is a real hobby, for example. Or learning how to sail, since we live in the Ocean State. I bet there’s a baseball league for grown-ups in town, and maybe you’d like that.

 I think a hobby would be a way for you to do something we never did together. Maybe it will relax you, or tire you out in a good way, or be something that you do at home, like paint. Pottery. (Actually, not pottery. You’d have to give pinch pots and lopsided vases to our friends and family, and they’d have to pretend to like them because you’re a widower.)

 Would you get a hobby for me, Joshua? It makes me happy to think of you trying something new, something that would interest you. I want you to have free time. I don’t want you to be working or grieving every minute of every day. I want you to make new friends. Maybe this can help.

 I’ll be watching, cheering you on in whatever it is, honey. I love you.

 Lauren

He reread it four times, memorizing it, then sniffed the paper, hoping to catch a trace of her smell. Nothing. Just paper.

She was right. He didn’t have many hobbies. He designed medical stuff, and he took care of his wife. He liked to travel, but not without her. He liked to cook, but not for one. The days were too long, and the nights were worse.

A hobby it would be.

Now. What did he like to do?

His mind went blank.

Once or twice a month, he and Ben Kim went for a long walk through the city so Ben could get his cigar fix without Mrs. Kim harping on him. That didn’t exactly constitute a hobby, though.

He ran because he knew he had to do something in order not to be a blob of a human, and to exercise Pebbles. He wasn’t interested in an art class. His work was art, in a way. When he was a kid, his mom had put him in gymnastics to burn off some of his toddler energy, and he kept at it for a few years. But that wasn’t something an adult could take up (the idea of him doing handsprings in the park . . . no). He’d played Little League baseball until about seventh grade, when he quit for the robotics team (dork). He hadn’t played sports in high school, but had done Model UN (super dork).

To Google he went. Hobbies for men. Leather working, out. Microbrewing, out. Guns, no thanks. Too loud, plus he didn’t see himself ever shooting anything. Archery maybe? That could be cool. Woodworking . . . nah. Furniture making? In college, he had been sought out as one of the few who could assemble IKEA furniture without direction. Might he have a talent for woodworking? The smell of wood, the satisfaction of a table made by his own hands?

But where would he do that? Would he have to buy a bunch of saws and power tools? Too much trouble.

He called Sarah. “Hey,” he said, belatedly realizing she was at work. “You busy?”

“No, no. What’s up?” Of course she was busy; she was a social worker for the state.

“Um, well, this is out of the blue, but . . . I’ve been thinking of taking up a hobby.”

“That’s good.”

“I just don’t know what to do.”

There was a silence. “Do you want me to suggest something?”

“Yes?” Why had he called her? He should’ve called Jen, who knew him better.

“Okay. Well, I take karate classes.” That’s right, she did. She used to come over before class sometimes, because Lauren had gotten a real kick out of it (pun intended), seeing her in her karate getup. “Why don’t you come to a class and see if you like it?”

“That would be great. Thank you.”

“Okay, I’ll text you my schedule and talk to my sensei.”

Couldn’t she just say teacher? Why did she always annoy him? “Thanks, Sarah,” he said, aware that she was doing him a favor.

“You’re welcome. Gotta go.”

* * *

GREEN DRAGON SCHOOL of Kenpo Karate was in a strip mall over in Federal Hill. Sarah met him there, already dressed in her black uniform, which was cinched at the waist with a black belt.

“Wow,” Josh said. “You’re a black belt?”

“No, Josh, I’m just wearing this because I like the color.” She rolled her eyes, then kissed him on the cheek. “Come on in. Sensei’s expecting us.”

“Does Sensei have a name?”

“She does. Jane.” Josh immediately pictured a tall, strong white woman in her forties, chiseled and hard and militant—a shredded Tilda Swinton. They went into the waiting room, which sported worn blue carpeting, a counter and a line of chairs. Windows showed the larger room with a padded floor, where classes were obviously taught. Freestanding punching bags, kicking shields and myriad other supplies stood neatly on the far side.

“Hello!” cried a woman. She was so tiny he hadn’t seen her behind the desk, and he jumped. She was white-haired—sixties? Seventies?—and wore a black uniform with a black belt around her plump waist. Japanese, with a slight accent. “You must be Joshua Park. Welcome! And hello, dear Sarah!” She stood up, not quite five feet tall, he guessed. Four foot ten and a half. Being an engineer made him good at estimating these things.