We Are Unprepared. Meg Little Reilly

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      It wasn’t uncommon for Pia to find inspiration at odd hours or obsess over a project for a few frantic days. Those episodes were exciting for her, but never upsetting. And often they really did produce something inspired, like the time Pia made an entire quilt to hang on the wall in our old apartment. She had taken a workshop in abstract quilting and spent hundreds of dollars at the fabric store. Oddly shaped strips of colorful torn fabric shed threads around the living room for days, until one sleepless night, I awoke to find a striking quilt the size of an entire wall draped around her as she trimmed stray ends. The vibrant colors danced together in an explosive design that looked something like a sunrise. It hung in our apartment for two years, until we moved to Vermont. The quilt was a symbol of Pia’s exuberance and artistic gifts. I don’t know why we hadn’t hung it yet in our new home, but I missed it as we drank tea on the couch. The quilt always helped to explain and excuse the erratic aspects of passionate Pia.

      We sat quietly for a while, staring forward at the inert television.

      “I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I don’t like this about myself. I wish I could change it.”

      I hugged her. “I know.”

      “I’m just...scared. I can’t explain why.”

      I wanted to be entirely there for her, to dedicate myself to conquering the internal and external threats that frightened her. But I was scared, too. The future that we’d planned for had been unmoored by the storm reports, and I wanted comfort now, as well. I didn’t know where self-care ended and selfishness began or what my obligation to my wife should have been then. I only knew that suddenly I didn’t have that selflessness in me. I was afraid, too.

      We shivered together under a blanket, each privately fearing the changes afoot.