On the last night, we lay under the stars, in self-contained and timeless ease, with even a sense of release (we'd forgotten to be sad, that night) on the grass slopes below the ballet terraces at Fort Canning Green. No stage and dancers, no picnic mats. Now memory comes too, of the year before, when we sat under the knotty ficus tree on the riverbank leaning into each other not knowing time was passing. This morning I happened to be talking to the Father about a Wendell Berry poem on nature as an antidote to despair. The end of the poem says:

I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

(I was only sad the next day. I think I shall be sad until the next year. But that night I was not yet sad. That night we knew that the sun would not be rising yet, that the next day had not yet dawned, and we rested in the grace of the world and held each other, and in the darkness, momentarily, we were free.)