True to his word, Hugo texted, suggesting we meet in Washington Square Park on Sunday. But I wouldn’t have minded if he’d called. I was also scheduled to play mahjong with Leo that evening—I’d been so busy with Claudia that it had been several weeks since we’d had a game. An afternoon with Hugo followed by an evening with Leo felt like the makings of an almost perfect day.
As I threw my wallet and keys into a tote along with the letters, I recognized the feeling in my stomach. It was the same one I felt whenever I was about to board a plane for a destination I’d never been to—a giddy blend of nerves and excitement. I didn’t realize how much I missed that.
That Sunday was the first day of the year warm enough to be outside without a coat. Bathing in soft sunshine, the park was shrugging off the sedation of winter. The lawns were a patchwork of picnic blankets, couples perched on the edge of the fountain, and musicians dotted the walkways.
I spotted Hugo leaning under the archway holding two take-out coffee cups while trying not to get caught in tourists’ photos. As I walked toward him, I felt a strong breeze propelling me forward. And yet the treetops were still.
“Hey!” Hugo’s wave was more of a wiggling of fingers, since his hands were full. The sleeves of his sweater were pushed up to his elbows, revealing a small tattoo of a botanical line drawing on his right forearm.
“Hi!” A little more enthusiastic than I’d intended.
“It’s such a sunny day that I thought maybe you’d like to walk around the park instead of sitting in a cramped café somewhere?”
“Great idea.” I always felt less nervous when my body was moving.
He handed me a cup. “Black, no sugar, like your grandpa, right?”
The thoughtfulness caught me off guard—I’d only mentioned it briefly at the wake. “I’m surprised you remembered.”
Hugo shrugged. “I kind of have a knack for observing small details.” He bent his head forward and lowered his voice. “But please don’t tell anyone. Some people find it creepy how much I remember about them.”
“We all have our secrets,” I said with mock solemnity. “Lucky for you, I’m really good at keeping them.”
“Well, in that case, I’m looking forward to hearing yours.” Hugo pointed his coffee past the fountain in the park’s center. “Should we go watch the drama unfold at the dog run? A guilty pleasure of mine.”
Usually, visiting the dog run would just remind me how much I missed Grandpa, but today the prospect ached a little less. “I’d love that.”
“We should’ve brought Gus and George so they could get to know each other.” Somehow his eyes looked happy even when his mouth was neutral.
“Maybe another time?” I wasn’t sure why the suggestion felt so intimate. Flustered, I handed Hugo the tote with the letters. “I’d better give you these, since that’s why we’re here.”
He examined the logo. “Repping the New York Public Library, huh?”
I blushed. Thank goodness I hadn’t grabbed the Trader Joe’s bag. “I’m a bit of a bookworm.”
“Glad to hear it,” Hugo said as we walked toward the dog run. “We’re rare creatures now that everyone’s attached to their phones. What’s the last great book you read?”
I liked being included in his “we.”
“I just finished one by Martha Gellhorn that I loved.” Did he order me a double shot of espresso? My brain felt hyper alert.
“The journalist, right? She wrote about the Spanish Civil War?”
“Yes, that’s her.” He really did have a mind for details. “Claudia reminded me of her, actually. It’s a shame she gave up her photography career.”
“For so many reasons,” Hugo said, squinting up at the sun. “Do you think they’re together now? Claudia and my grandpa?”
“I hope so,” I replied, though I was confident they were.
He sipped his coffee. “You know, I really like what she said in her final letter. ‘We’re not meant to be in this lifetime … perhaps we’ll meet in another.’ It’s actually super pragmatic. Like, maybe we have different business with the same souls in each lifetime. And it doesn’t always work out how we want it to in every one of them.”
“I wonder what their business was in this one?”
“Great question.” Hugo grinned. “I guess only they can answer that. Maybe they’ll tell us in the next one when they get a do-over.”
“Maybe they will.” I loved that idea.
“So, what would be your do-over? In this life, I mean.” Hugo asked it casually, as if such deep questions were normal between relative strangers.
It surprised me how easily the answer came—and how natural it felt to share it with him.
I drew in a slow breath.
“I wish I’d been with my grandfather when he died.” We walked several beats in silence but Hugo didn’t try to fill them. “I was traveling in Cambodia at the time. He had a stroke in his office at Columbia late at night and he died … alone.”
A few more beats.
“Clover, I’m so sorry. It must have been so devastating not to have been there with him.”
My whole body tensed. “I know it sounds stupid, but I wish I could ask him to forgive me for being on the other side of the world when he needed me.” As I said the words out loud, it was as if someone had unhooked a weight from my shoulders. One I’d been carrying unknowingly for years.
Hugo considered his words. “Is that part of why you’ve dedicated your life to being with other people when they die?”
I was embarrassed that he’d seen through me so quickly. That, in a way, my work as a death doula was selfish. It wasn’t just the regrets of the dying people I was trying to resolve—it was my own.
Of course I knew that Grandpa could still have died alone in his office even if I’d been in New York. But at least I would have spent time with him in the days leading up to it. Instead, I hadn’t seen his face in an entire year, and I’d taken it for granted that he’d still be there when I got back. Worst of all, I hadn’t cherished the small details that felt inconsequential then but that I missed so dearly now—the way he stirred his coffee, the sound of him rubbing his stubble, the deep rumble of his laugh. When someone has always been there for you, it’s easy to assume they always will be. And then, one day, they’re not.
“I guess it is,” I said. Finally acknowledging it out loud shifted something inside me. Hugo had posed the question so gently, without judgment, that the embarrassment began to dissipate.
“You know, from what you’ve told me about him, it doesn’t sound like there’d be any issue of him forgiving you.” Hugo stopped walking and looked at me. “Maybe it’s more a question of you forgiving yourself?”
One sentence and the emotions I’d neatly tucked away for years rushed through my body like a river freed from its dam. I was afraid I would unravel in the middle of the park.
“I’m sorry,” I said, sucking in a sharp breath. “I’m not sure I can talk about this.”
Hugo put his hand lightly on my shoulder, shifting his posture until I finally made eye contact with him.
“You don’t have to,” he said quietly. “Your grief is yours to process in your own time, in whatever way works for you. No one can tell you how to do that. But if you do ever feel like talking about it, I’d be happy to listen.”
“Thank you.” Though Hugo was smiling, there was a hint of pain in his expression.