29 October 2013
Sometimes, our letters don’t need to be long in order for us to tell each other: I am still here, right here. The day is full up, and my muscles and skin are tired, but I’m still here. You know where to find me.
It was a good day. A long day, but a good one. Tomorrow will be busy, I know, with lots of people and running about at the office. I’m making a hot water bottle and trying to stockpile sleep to catch up. But I’m writing letters, and that always makes me feel better. Especially these, especially here.
I’ve more than likely shared this before, and you more than likely know it. But I really love it:
What happened is, we grew lonely
living among the things,
so we gave the clock a face,
the chair a back,
the table four stout legs
which will never suffer fatigue.
We fitted our shoes with tongues
as smooth as our own
and hung tongues inside bells
so we could listen
to their emotional language,
and because we loved graceful profiles
the pitcher received a lip,
the bottle a long, slender neck.
Even what was beyond us
was recast in our image;
we gave the country a heart,
the storm an eye,
the cave a mouth
so we could pass into safety.