Joggers stream past me. Im seated on a park bench by myself with an ocean of tears dammed up inside.

A couple who liked to walk the Minuteman Bikeway installed this bench so fellow pedestrians could rest and take in nature. Bikers zip by, one hooked up to a bike trailer containing a toddler. A young man on a Segway sails past.

I turn away from this evidence of civilization. Green leaves flutter in the breeze. I marvel at their simplicity. Being a leaf would be easier than a woman separated from her 85-year-old husband by the Atlantic Ocean.

Sven is in Lule, Sweden, with a fractured femur. I returned to Boston to promote my new book and three weeks into this forced separation of ours, he went for a walk by himself and fell.

We met in France. I spotted Sven in the teachers parking lot at the Lyce International in St. Germain-en-Laye, my daughters school. He was hard to miss, holding a bouquet of pink roses high above his head as he zigzagged between cars.

I wondered who would be lucky enough to receive such a fine bouquet from such an attractive man. I never found out, but we happened to meet later that week at a cocktail party hosted by the German Section. I stood with an American Section teacher as Sven approached.

Its strange how certain moments become engraved in memory. I know exactly what I was wearing: a black pencil skirt and a silk cobalt blue blouse. The reception hall smelled of bratwurst canaps, distributed by German parents, the women dressed in dirndls.

You must know Sven, the American Section teacher said.

I dont, I replied with a smile. But Im counting on you for an introduction.