Several times a year for 22 years I spent a lot of time in eastern Connecticut and Newport, Rhode Island. My then not-ex and his brother had a lakeside cabin there. The Connecticut/Rhode Island border split the lake’s length, and the beach was actually in Rhode Island.

During weekdays, it was a quiet, contemplative place overlooking the lake and a state forest on the RI shore. I found it very conducive to writing. Portions of many of my books I draft there, sitting on the deck with water lapping against the dock my white noise. It was some of the most creative portions of my life, and that was aided by the support and encouragement of my then not-ex. He understood me and the creative process, and he would take long “cruises” in a row boat and leave me to write. He’d listen to the creative problems I had and always had the right thing to say.

Then, he became an ex. I was always welcome there, he said, but I couldn’t do it. Too many good memories and the awareness there’d be no more.

Like the 4th of July weekend one year when a rowdy crew from another house built a makeshift pontoon boat out of God knew what, lashed an outboard motor to it, and cruised up and down the lake drinking beer, blasting music, and setting off fireworks. We loved it! Not so, some other people who were permanent residents there who called the police. They could do little, though. They had no boat, and the “sailors” just ignored them and continued their cruise.

Hmm. I’ll have to write that story one day.

Like one morning waking at the edge of dawn to fog over the lake and seeing a flock of Canadian geese launch from the water and disappear into the fog bank.

Teaching my niece how to fish and then watching her run down the pier and leap into the water over and over for hours. When she’d finally stop, her lips were blue from the cool water.

Sharing all sorts of meaningful conversations with the then not-ex and making plans, some of which we did but a lot we didn’t.

Twenty-two years makes a lot of fond memories, but I haven’t been back for more than a decade. I found when I visited post-ex, I had no spark to write. So, I avoided it to the point of upsetting my former in-laws and niece. When my ex became my late ex, I told myself I’d never go there again. If I couldn’t write after the split, I certainly couldn’t write after his death.

However, I got worn down. Tomorrow, I’m boarding a train and traveling to New London, Connecticut, where I’ll be picked up and then spend a few days with my niece and her daughter. I’ll enjoy some fresh seafood, some minor league baseball, and watch my great niece play softball. (I’ve seen videos; she’s amazing.)

Still, I don’t want to go. A friend said it might be cathartic after the ex’s death. I’m taking my laptop, and we’ll see if the spark is still there. Alas, there won’t be a chance to visit the lake house. The brothers sold it some time ago. And literally everywhere we’ll go, the people we’ll see, will bring up those fond memories. A good thing, you might say.

I don’t think I’m there, yet, but we’ll see.

And I will write.