But there’s another Sarah, one with an “h.”

I have a print of two koi fish on top of my wall to wall bookcase in the laundry room. (I love that my library is in the laundry room.) Every time I look at it I think of her. She made it. She was my future wife. She was one of those people who you wouldn’t notice even if they were standing right in front of you. Her lips were always limp, creating a soft frown on her always unmade up face. I think she smelled like clay. Maybe that’s why her hands were so soft.

One of her bedroom walls was a maze of pink thread and pins. Hundreds of thin silver pins were embedded into her charcoal gray wall. She had created a massive, artfully tangled constellation of thread work stretching from pinhead to pinhead. It was the clearest map through a 17 year old’s emotions that I ever did see. Her room was my favorite. She lived the way the older and wiser should live. I mean, she had a harp for goodness sake.

Resting on the surround of her sunken, mosaic tiled soaking tub was a painting of me looking out the window. One day she had sketched me leaning on the sill with my back slightly hunched. She captured my mid-calf length skirt, long sleeved fitted sweater, mary-janes, and low ponytail. The scene was finished in blues and grays. Still today I wonder if she saw me as blue and gray or if she saw everything as blue and gray. Or did she paint it specifically with her bathroom in mind? It was every shade of blue and I imagine Pacific Palisades has some gray, foggy mornings.

Now it is the future and she is not my wife. I stare at her web-site filled with gentle and enticing illustrations and remember her parents clearly. She looked so much like her father. Her mother had curly hair that was firm and brillowy. They supported her artistic interest and had her paintings all over the house on display. And they sent her to art school. That’s where we met.

Minutes later, it’s still the future and she is not my wife.