“MEMOIR” COMES FROM THE LATIN WORD MEMORIA, MEANING “MEMORY or reminiscence,” which makes it extremely subjective. The memoirist views the world through his or her own particular set of filters, chooses to include some details, leaves others out—and that becomes the narrative. But it’s all just a memory in the end.
I originally planned to end this story before Traca picked a shell, back when everything was still possible between us. But when many early readers demanded to know what her decision was, I realized I was not alone on this journey. So here’s what happened:
Traca didn’t decide that night on the beach. Though I insisted we stay in the circle until we had a clear commitment one way or the other, she eventually stood up, unable to choose, and we walked to the car together.
It wasn’t until a month later that she finally made her choice. I remember the day clearly because it was the Fourth of July. It was also the day I finished the first draft of this book, a huge milestone for me. Feeling a mixture of elation and relief, I called Traca from my office to tell her the good news. “Let’s celebrate,” I said. “Are you hungry?”
We met at a local restaurant.
Unfortunately, the dinner was far from a celebration. As I talked about the book, the joy of completion, my hopes for the future … Traca just sat there. She seemed sad, not sharing my moment of triumph at all.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “You seem miserable.”
Traca smiled weakly and met my eyes. “I think I need to choose the black shell,” she said.
We filed for divorce shortly after that.
It bears mentioning that Traca has no recollection of this scene. She remembers being at the restaurant but she does not remember those words, the black shell, any of it. Though I wrote it in my journal later that night and can clearly picture her saying it, Traca doesn’t remember it that way. No doubt her memoir of our trip and our life together would be completely different from the one I’ve written here.
However it really happened, we are no longer together. It wasn’t the choice I hoped she’d make, but it is the path we have chosen. She bought a small house a few miles from mine and still lives in Gorham. We remain connected through, and committed to, our kids and are probably better friends than we’ve been in years. If there is ever a contest for America’s Most Amicable Divorce, Traca and I may enter. I sincerely hope she finds what she’s looking for.
When Jackson headed off to college and Logan hit the road for his backpacking trip across South America, my nest was officially empty. Alone in a house far too big for one, I put it on the market and sold it to a happy couple with two young children. Then, when a new owner bought the company I was working for and unexpectedly laid me off, I had a blank slate and a question to answer:
What next?
With this in mind, I looked out a nearby window and watched late-summer maple trees swaying gently in the wind. Should I move somewhere warm? I wondered. Where would I be happy? What memories do I want to make? Which is when three words popped into my head as if for the first time:
Year of Service.
I laughed at the universe’s persistence and didn’t think much of it. But later that night, I logged on to my computer and searched the words “volunteer” and “elephants.”
Thailand, Namibia, Sri Lanka, Cambodia, India.
So many choices and a wide-open world in front of me.