I find myself unprepared to write about the family crisis that took me away from here, away from home, away from school. After several weeks, life is slouching closer to normal, or a tentative new normalcy. It’s good to be home, and good to be here.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to counterfeit my usual sense of buoyancy, of being bounced and tossed but not sunk in the choppy waters. What caused me to realize that my forgery of hope had shifted, transmogrified, metamorphosed into real hope again? Was it a visit from the doctor? No. The fact of coming home? No. The strength and support of friends? No. (Except, well, yes, and more on that later.)
It was the moment I discovered my goosedown pillow had burst in my dodgy old coin-op dryer, filling it and clouding the disreputable basement with wafting bits floats. A week ago, I would have sat down on the oil-stained cement floor, head in hands. Today, I burst out laughing as feathers drifted down around me, catching in my hair, my sweater, floating up my nose.
Again, Emily Dickinson was right.