Page 14 of Seven Summer Weekends

“Not me. Silence makes me nervous.”

“I guess you don’t meditate, then.”

“Not a chance. I tried once. It was torture.”

He laughed, a laugh that lit up his face. She wished she could capture it.

“Gicky claimed meditation elevated her art to a higher level. Your aunt said a true artist hears with their eyes. Do you feel that way?”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I am not a true artist. I’m a sellout. At least I was till I lost my job a few weeks ago.”

“At the advertising firm?”

Addison put down the brush and approached Paresh.

“Can I ask you a question?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “If Gicky kept such close track of me, even shared where I worked with her friends, why didn’t she ever reach out?”

“It’s hard to say. I know the rejection from your father left her wary of opening her heart. Plus, she feared giving him ammunition against her. She worried that contacting you behind his back would have angered him more. She always hoped he would come around.” Paresh looked into her eyes, and she found it hard to turn away.

“But please consider this—she is reaching out now.”

“Isn’t it too late?”

“Not at all. Sit with me.”

He opened up the closet, pulled out a threadbare rug and two cushions, and placed them on the floor in the corner of the sunlit room. He sat with his back against one wall and motioned for Addison to do the same on the other.

“I told you. I don’t meditate.”

“Indulge me.”

She sat, copying his posture, back straight, shoulders relaxed, eyes closed.

“Focus on your breath. Notice the sensation of the air as it enters and exits your nose. Place your left hand on your belly, and lose yourself in the rise and the fall—the rise and the fall.”

Out of respect more than conviction, she dove in. She knew from prior experience it was only a matter of seconds before her thoughts would stray to any of the million little things that kept her up at night. She had never possessed a quiet mind—and Paresh seemed to read it. Maybe it was just Meditation 101, but as soon as she began to drift, he said, “Be present, Addison. Don’t fight your thoughts and distractions. Acknowledge them without judgment, and then gently bring your attention back to your breath.”

She did, but a short time later, she was thinking about howher once best friend, Phoebe Thomas, stole her cupcake in the fourth grade. She couldn’t even keep her thoughts in the decade, let alone the moment. She focused on wrestling the random memories and distractions, hoping to return them to whatever corner of her brain they had escaped from. The experience reminded her of a childhood toy. An unsuspecting can of mixed nuts that, when opened, released a coil-covered snake that sprang out, offering a surprisingly satisfying prank. She had quickly excelled at wrangling the snake back into the can.

Her grandfather had brought her that toy on a visit from Florida. Her thoughts floated to her mother’s father, whom she had adored like no other, and who had become a far greater disappointment than Phoebe Thomas.

Focus on your breath, she heard Paresh say, unsure whether he had actually spoken again, or if she had remembered his words from minutes before. Either way, she complied, pushing aside the upsetting thoughts of her grandpa and placing her left hand on her belly and silently chanting,In, out, in, out.

She managed to breathe like that for a minute or two, but it didn’t last.

She adjusted her gaze to meet his eyes. No words were necessary.

“Sometimes listening to a story helps. Can I tell you a story?”

“Please do,” she said as she crossed her legs and lowered her gaze, giving it a real try.

With his quiet voice rising and falling within the syllables of a word in almost a hypnotic way, he told the tale of the weaver and the princess.

“Once, there was a talented weaver who created beautiful and intricate patterns on his loom. He was known throughout theland for his artistry and skill. One day, the weaver was commissioned by the king to create a special tapestry for his daughter, the princess.

“The weaver accepted the challenge and worked on the tapestry. However, he found he couldn’t create anything that satisfied him. He worked for many days and nights, but the tapestry remained incomplete.

“Feeling frustrated and defeated, the weaver took a walk in the woods. There, he met a sage who asked him what was troubling him. The weaver explained his situation, and the sage said, ‘Love is the thread of creativity. Without love, your work will remain incomplete.’

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