It’s been a busy time, and will only be more so. I have poems coming out and essays, an anthology soon; interviews and teaching; a novel nearly done; a conference; an agent push; hotel and plane arrangements; the usual seasonal shopping. There’s something else, an unusual box.
My friends are far away. My friends are in California and Ohio and in their first homes and in their ninth month and in another time zone. My friends cannot be here. I cannot be there. My friends have asked at least for a time, a day or two, in which to stop and think.
So friends. I am not sure what to say. I am not sure how much I should write. I am not sure I believe in the validity of blogs. I am not sure how to balance the professional and personal when it comes to this sort of thing, the most important news of my life.
You know this already. You will hear it in a phone call or in an e-mail.
...and somehow, you are here...trying to find the heart of your new home. you wish it would snow now, so that you could crawl inside of it, cold and white, surrounding your skin and your bones. you need time you say. so much time to absorb it all. you walk around the house, wondering where to put your things...
for how else could you end such a journey? how else? or perhaps, such things never end. perhaps the end of this simply does not exist. wings spread and held back, pinned to the air.
we are all white birds. all of us. --Jeff Pitcher
Friends, think of us now.
