Dear Anne,

When Wednesday follows Thursday and morning becomes afternoon the next day.

 Dear Anne, 

I was going on back Wednesday morning, I thought. Instead, I found myself in a talk on Anne Bradstreet, whose poems tend to jingle - at least in my ear. Even then, the serious way the serious woman talking to us read them, they were jingling.

     I’ve read some of them, the poems, before.* I find like the poet, especially her clear love of home and family tempered by genuine faith, where love of God must come before all things, whether it does or not. The woman talking to us, tall and earnest, was of a different denomination with different hopes, a different understanding of love, with different struggles.

     But, however she struggled with Anne Bradstreet’s poems, they are real: the words can be found on pages between covers.

My pathetic fallacy - if I can call it that - encompasses all things: the room like a piece of chipped china, the plastic chairs dull blue and dull red, the sun turning gray as it falls through the dirty window, the woman’s ardent voice. All could well be imaginary.

     Likely they were.

03.16 & 07.18

_______________

 * I do like “In Memory of My Dear Grandchild Elizabeth Bradstreet,” which doesn’t jingle. Read it here. Listen to it here.