One day at the Leverett Village Co-Op we met a man. A writer. Or maybe a writer to be. Deb had just graduated Simmons with a Masters Degree in Writing for Children. So our chance encounter came with some commonality. I just watched. And listened.
When the posturing was over, the man went to his car and grabbed a manuscript. Told us about the story. Used the word prolix a lot. And then turns to the very last page and is beyond excited to point out that the book doesn’t end with a period. The last word is just that.
I’ve got a full plate of emotions. And that man’s short period in my personal space looms large. I’m looking at my timeline. Measuring the work that’s been done. Contrasting it with the life in front of me. Trying to make sense.
I’m in the middle. Not stuck in it. Just in it. There’s no next place until there’s no place at all. Is no place at all is really no place or is it what’s next. What is it. Where is it. Too many have gone there. My heart asks questions. Reliving moments gives me strength. Reliving them also weakens me.
Being in the middle comes with time to ponder. To wonder. About next. There’s this hallway. I hope a long one. A door waits. When I get near does it suddenly close. Will it swing wide open. Does everything stop. Or continue. Maybe that’s when the story starts
All This By Hand
.
