I went to Napa. The last time I was there, I was on my honeymoon with Constance’s father before Constance was conceived. I cried before we went to the winery. During the tasting, I turned away from the sommelier repeatedly to brush away tears. Then I concluded my visit with a trip to the bathroom to cry and then clean up my tears.
I couldn’t stop comparing my past enthusiasm for the future with my current state of being. Instead of thinking of the flavors and characteristics of the wine, I wondered what I’d do differently to try and save Constance’s life. I asked if I’d ever get to be a parent again. I worried that I’d have the same outcome again. Then I rubbed my face, removing away any moisture, and left.
I do not want to return.