I wonder how many other people die with their artistic secrets intact. My first husband, Patrick Cudmore, did. His amazing writings and visions still lie moldering in boxes in my son Sean’s garage. I long to get my hands on them, but apparently, the emotional suffering he brought upon his sons still feels too raw. I googled Patrick, and did find his 2001 obit and photos of his prototype sea craft. How many other people’s extraordinary beauty is obscured by their flawed humanity? Is this true, in some sense, of all of us?
