I AM WRITING late at night when it’s easy: no one remembers it but us, even the gibbous moon which in that rare sky blew down the path—and lit it up the way we felt—forgot it, as did the owl who turned away, small and dark over the wind-ripped black water of Soldier’s Pond, so high above the city, so high we were, the line of surf laced all the way to Cappahayden, and the grass laid out horizontal by our breathing like that.