Distant Shores

He pulled her into his arms.

By the time elizabeth returned to the house from the airport, it was almost completely dark outside. Night coated the trees; they stood in black relief against the neon pink sunset. When she opened the door and went inside, she opened her mouth to call out for Anita.

Im home.

But Anita was on an airplane, flying east.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and went up to her bedroom, where the papers Meghann had sent to her were stacked neatly beside her bed. She picked them up, stared down at them. Letterheads blurred before her eyes. Columbia University . . . SUNY . . . NYU. All New York schools. Near Jack.

Pretty subtle, Meg.

She tucked the papers under her arm, then grabbed a yellow legal pad and a pen. Downstairs, she took a seat at the kitchen table and began filling out the forms. When shed finished that, she picked up the phone and called Meghann.

"Hey, Meg," she said without preamble. "I need you to write a letter of recommendation for me. Im applying for grad school. "

Meghann screamed into the phone. "Oh, my God! Im so proud of you. Im hanging up now; I have to draft a letter that makes my best friend sound like da Vinci in a bra and panties. "

Elizabeth hung up, then called Daniel, who had pretty much the same reaction. She spoke to him for a few minutes, gave him the schools and addresses, then hung up. A third call to the University of Washington had her dusty transcripts sent out.

There were only two things left to do. Photograph her work so that shed have slides to put in a portfolio to be included with the application, and write her admission essay. Three hundred words on why they should let a forty-six-year-old woman into graduate school.

She poured herself a glass of wine and returned to the kitchen table.

She opened the yellow pad to a blank page and began to write.

Right off the bat, I should tell you that Im forty-six years old. Perhaps thats relevant only to me, and then again, perhaps not. Im sure your school will be inundated with applications from twenty-one-year-old students with perfect grades and stellar talents. Honestly, I dont see how my record can compete with theirs.

Unless dreams matter. I know a dream is a dream is a dream, but to the young, such a thing is simply a goal to reach for, a prize to win. For a woman like me, who has spent half a lifetime facilitating other peoples aspirations, it has a whole different meaning.

Once, years ago, I was told that I had talent. It seemed an insubstantial thing then, not unlike hair color or gender. Something that had traveled in my DNA. I didnt see then--as of course I do now--that such a thing is a gift. A starting place upon which whole lives can be built. I let it pass me by, and went on with everyday life. I got married, had children, and put aside thoughts of who Id once wanted to be.

Life goes by so quickly. One minute youre twenty years old and filled with fire; the next, youre forty-six and tired in the mornings. But if youre very lucky, a single moment can change everything.

Thats what happened to me this year. I wakened. Like Sleeping Beauty, I opened my eyes, yawned, and dared to look around. What I

saw was a woman whod forgotten how it felt to paint.

Now, I remember. I have spent the last few months studying again, pouring my heart and soul onto canvas, and have found--miraculously--that my talent survived. Certainly it is weaker, less formed than it was long ago, but I am stronger. My vision is clearer. This time, I know, I have something to say with my art.

And so, I am here, sitting at my kitchen table, entreating you to give me a chance, to make a place for me in your classrooms next fall. I cannot guarantee that I will become famous or exceptional. I can, however, promise that I will give everything inside me to the pursuit of excellence.

I will not stop trying.

Jack maneuvered his rental car down Stormwatch Lane. It was full-on night now, as dark as pitch as he pulled into the carport.

The house glowed with golden light against the onyx hillside.

He went to the front door and knocked. There was no answer, so he let himself in.

She was in the living room, dancing all by herself, wearing a long white T-shirt and fuzzy pink socks. She held an empty wineglass to her mouth and sang along with the record, "I can see clearly now, the rain is gone. " Her butt twitched back and forth.

She turned suddenly and saw him. A bright smile lit up her face, and it was an arrow straight into his heart. Now he knew what the poets meant when they wrote about coming home.

In the old days, when hed come home after a long absence, shed run full tilt into his arms. Theyd fit together like pieces of a puzzle; another thing hed taken for granted.

Now they stared at each other, with the whole of the living room stretched between them. There was so much he wanted to say. Hed practiced the words all the way across the country, but how much would she want to hear?

"You wont believe what I did tonight," she said, coming toward him, doing a little dance.