“If you are ever tempted to wonder why you’re doing this,” one character says to another, after the first of a series of life-changing experiences: “This is why.”

In a life that can seem, at times, very isolated and forgotten, this gift out my window…the first thing I saw this morning: an eagle splashing down into the river after a fish.

To the other lives that have come to share this space, this little gift passed on from me….

Glass of wine and almonds.

A temperature cooler than the mercury tells it.

Sunset imminent.

Oldest clothes. The company of the day’s late birds,

frantic before the night comes.

This place is no longer my parents’ only.

It is mine. It is me.

The poetry that lives in grateful eyes.

Water, hill, sky: not the same for others as for me.

I have the language of it. The remaking of it in my head.

From memory to keystrokes.

The rare moments in which I see through rare lenses

the thing that I have been given;

the gift that lets me share it.

Poetry in the head. Not Charles Wright-exquisite, but my own.

Mine to live in a forgiving January,

In the conceits of peculiar sight.

I sing Radiohead to myself in 5/4 time.

And the rest of it, the silence…it belongs to me.

The gift of parents’ lives, alive in its next incarnation.

The writer’s life.

What it is to be me.

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