"Even the ticket agent looked shopworn." I like this phrase a lot, Barbara, especially the way it flows off the previous sentence. Such feelings of loss and exhaustion... So here is the last time I cried.
Five women sit in chairs, waiting. Ceiling lights are off, just three lamps around the perimeter send light into this twilight room. The women are waiting for me to find a poem to read them. I am paging through a collection of Emily Dickinson, searching for something short, with not too many hard words. I ask if they remember Emily Dickinson. Some have memories yet from high school. I find a poem and begin reading. The women listen. This is the fourth or fifth poem of hers that I've read this afternoon, and I imagine that they may be getting used to the syntax. I know they appreciate the rhymes. I read: This is my letter to the world - That never wrote to me. So far, I'm doing fine. My voice is clear and my enunciation strong. But Emily has other plans. By the second line from the end, I have to stop and sigh, and my voice trembles. I make it through to the end, but I cannot continue. I have to tell them that I have to read some other poems, that these are making me cry.
Alright, I didn't start bawling, but I was right there at the edge.
Bob ;-)
No comments:
Post a Comment