Lucky

Andrew and I had a week the other week in which a lot of nice things happened: the cottage that we own on the beach went from only being seasonally habitable (a condo board ruling) to year round; I got invited to come to Miami and talk to graduate students about a book I wrote that has for most of it's printed life felt as though no one were reading it; and something else good happened, but I forget what it is.

The flurry of good made me think of Richard, my ex-boyfriend, who, after a failed suicide attempt in his early '20's, felt that he could only be with people who made him feel "lucky". Whether or not that's true -- the big idea of true: that lucky people can apply to anyone -- is a mystery to either be discounted or celebrated. But there are weeks, even days, with someone in which you feel their very presence makes you lucky. When the fact of deciding not to go it alone has a kind of benevolence that keeps signalling back to the union and giving it power.

Of course, without knowing it, I was the lucky designee assigned to "luck" in Richard's lucky life. But now, I think both Andrew and I are the holders of the spell. Love is not only lovelier, the second time around, but luckier.