Mary Frederick Ahearn
A book, in its pages, that pressed
Violet, the leavings of an afternoon . . .
They'll long outlast our last oblivion;
And never know that we are gone.
– Jorge Luis Borges
I read the book, on and off, those hard days and solitary nights, in waiting rooms, by the bedside, and at home, hours later after the emails and calls were made. Updates, schedules, and compassion – gratefully received, exhausting. Then it was time for the book, its lovely soft pages, its heft, reassuring, a solace. The author's words, her wisdom, images, connections all soared around and through me, pushing aside the day's worries and pointing a way to somewhere else. The book, an emblem left from those days, rests on a shelf somewhere close and oblivious to my affection.
under canopies of old trees
in dappled light
shaded rest in summer
light's warmth in winter
Epigraph from Jorge Luis Borges, "Things" (trans. by A.S. Kline)