The tropical night is cool at this elevation, and Mary is wearing bluejeans. She looks good in them. Tall, slim, and somehow elegant, her dark, shoulder-length hair blending right into the night. We're standing hip-to-hip, as we often did in those days whenever friends or family were around. I probably have my arm curled around her waist or draped across her back; I don't remember. What I do remember is the distance between us that cannot be seen: a formless gap bridged by neither physical contact nor words. Not, at least, by words we will ever learn to speak. The visible gaps—her Catholicism, my atheism; her desire for home and family, my wanderlust—these will narrow in the years ahead as we each labor to adjust to the other. But the invisible gap, the indeterminable difference between us, this will never disappear. Mary and I share one secret, of which we will never speak: As long as we remain still, as long as we neither talk nor move, the real gap between us cannot be easily perceived by others. And the two of us can successfully ignore it. So while Phil talks, and Mark and Anita swing and sway to a cool jazz beat, Mary and I stand hip-to-hip in silence.
        But that's not all that's happening tonight. With the honeyed tones of Ella Fitzgerald flowing over us into the cool Hawaiian evening, we're actually hopeful. Despite the invisible distance we both feel, we believe in ourselves and our marriage. And we should: We're two decades from its demise. Somehow, in our stiff silence, we're trying.
        You're right, I finally concede to Phil. I don't know the standards.
        Standards—the most popular songs of the big band/jazz era of the 30s, 40s, and 50s—characterize the music of my parents' generation, not mine. My parents' tastes actually ran more to country and western. Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, and cross-over artists like Patsy Cline are what I heard on the radio every morning of my youth. But I never danced to them, either. Even if Mick Jagger or Grace Slick belted out a rock and roll invitation from Mark's Magnavox, my clumsy Okie feet would remain planted right here on the lanai like two potted ferns.
        Phil shakes his head. He's writing a novel called The Jazz Pilgrims, and I know too little about its title subject to appreciate many of its nuances. My ignorance causes Phil to shift the conversation to writing, a subject he assumes I'm more comfortable with. I've recently published my very first short story, and my beginner's pride probably shows.
        Phil is telling us about an off-campus workshop he's teaching that uses writing as a tool to achieve wellness. I can feel Mary's gaze drift back toward the dancers and the music.
        One thing I've learned about writing, Phil says, is its therapeutic value. I must look skeptical, for abruptly he adds: So what do YOU think the purpose of writing is?
        The question catches me by surprise. In reply, I mumble something incomprehensible about Immanuel Kant.
        Kant? Phil says, raising his eyebrows. You write because of Kant?

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