West Cliff Percussion Ashiko Drum

Oakland, 2001

This handsome, well-made drum accompanied me to many New Years’ celebrations in Point Reyes, where my friends traditionally rent a house for the holidays. Our hikes, dinners, and drum circles once included R., a beautiful woman I dated from 1999 to 2002. This drum was a gift from her. I’m sad to say we had a rough breakup, filled with anger and convictions of betrayal.

A few months after R. and I parted ways, I visited our neighborhood bookstore for my weekly browse. Now and then I find used copies of my own books, some now out of print. This time—in the travel section—I saw copies of all of my books. I pulled one off the shelf. My heart sank as I beheld the loving inscription I’d written to R. years ago, shortly after we’d started dating.

She had traded in every book I’d given her. Who can blame her? I left them on the shelf.

R. got married and moved away. She and her husband lived in France for a spell, and traveled the world before settling in Carmel. In the Spring of 2017, while hiking in the hills above Monterey with a friend, she had a major stroke. The left side of her body was, and remains, almost completely paralyzed.

Though she and I had not communicated for years, a few mutual friends served as intermediaries. With R.’s permission, I was put on the list for updates about her condition. Though they tried to sound upbeat, the prognosis was grim. For someone as active and adventurous as R., the stroke was like being tossed, without cause or warning, into a prison.

R. and I reconciled. More than that; it’s fair to say that, with our respective physical challenges, we’ve bonded. I’ve visited her in the hospital. Our meetings leave me filled with admiration. As she struggles to regain mobility, R. is navigating her personal nightmare with more grit, courage, and humor than I could ever muster.

I don’t play the ashiko anymore. But while I was recovering from my back surgeries, my sister visited. Debra saw the drum, and told me that her husband would love it. A few weeks later, I shipped it to them.

So this particular object is already spoken for. Why include it here? Because I want to share R.’s story. Sometimes we get to choose what we give away. But often, and ultimately, we do not.