On my bedroom wall hangs a pencil drawing of me when I was 20 years old, a nude. I am seated with my hands in my lap, though the image captures only my upper torso. My hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, parted in the middle, and I am gazing off to the left. The lines are wispy and faint, so delicate I seem to be only partly there.
William Bailey gave me this drawing as a wedding gift in 2000 when I married my college sweetheart the summer after graduation, a union that would last 12 years. I have treasured it through divorce and remarriage, turning to it to remember—what exactly? The girl portrayed is inscrutable and seldom reveals anything, but gazing at her does remind me of a time in my life when I looked almost exclusively to others to tell me who I was.
I...
