I meant to go to the wharf at lunch today--to sit and stare at the ships on the horizon (with all my hopes on board?).
But I went, instead, to the bookstore, walked in between the shelves, touched the spines, smelled the glue of the books. Comforted. Sad.
I went to the poetry section and stared at the names--all my favorites, all my confindantes of the years through my life stood firm and unbroken.
And from them, I chose Sharon Olds, whom I have hardly read. Everyone loves her--so many women have guided my hand to the covers of her anthologies, yet my hand stayed just above the skin, feeling the heat between the pages, hesitant to linger there.
I found a corner and sat with my back against a window, my legs crossed, my head bent down, Dar Williams in my ears.
And I read. And I wept, there on the floor in a bookstore. Silent weeping, silent, silent grief.
To know what the possibility is and to be powerless and silent and lost is this.
Just space where words are still so powerful, even when they're not spoken or written out loud.