When had she sent it? Perhaps the better question is why her message telling me to let go only made me want to hold on tighter. Even though I can hear the burdensome nature of my thoughts, I can’t stop them from coming.

Her package wasn’t the source of these thoughts. The whole drive had felt like I was navigating through a thick mental bog. One misstep and I’d drop through to the murky depths below. I had thought that I’d be safe once I made it back home, and now this painting was casting me back out onto unstable ground.

Realistically, I knew it was unlikely that she’d sent it after I had shown up on her door step. It was hardly something that would have warranted express shipping. Did that make things better? I had thought that she had been holding back, living life with the hope of being able to share the rest of our lives with each other. It was a naïve view, but I could only see that now.

My head was heavy with circuitous thoughts asserting that I had done the right thing, only to question if I had really done anything at all. As the sharp-edged thoughts wriggled through my mind, I continued to stare at the painting.

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Does she still paint, now? I hoped that she did, but I know that joy and even talent are often tossed aside as one grows older. This time, instead of allowing the thought that whether she painted or not was no longer something that I should be thinking about, I studied the painting closer.

I studied it, perhaps hoping for a secret message to have been left behind, tucked away in the creeping vines that reached up the walls of the house. Alas, the tiny buds of the lilies of the valley were nothing more than their normal cherubic cups of white.

I’m not sure how long I looked at the painting before I was spurred to action. I went digging in the back of a closet to find an old toolchest that had a stray nail and hammer. The feeling of purpose and action felt strange. After so much aimless wandering, it was odd to know what my next move was going to be. I measured above my bed, and hammered the nail in. I hung the small painting, standing back to look at the finished job.

I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. Searching so hard for a message, when it wasn’t like Clara to expect me to find some hidden message. She’d remained consistent to the end. All the thinking in the world wouldn’t change the fact that she was right. I had to move on.