reading from a book in progress, tonight at Penn

Tonight I'll be joining the Penn Alumnae Association—talking about my students, reading from Handling the Truth, and debuting these few paragraphs from this pesky work in progress. Much of this new book takes place on the campus I've grown to love. It seems only fitting to share these words with other alum who pass that way again:




The snow
is new. Our boots sink deep. Maggie drops the trash-can lid onto the
snowy walk and ties it to the leash of her rope. “You first,” she says, and the
snow and the lid crunch beneath me and Maggie lassoes the rope and I’m thrown back and now forward and Maggie says to keep my knees pressed
to my chin.

I am floating.
I am flying between the big Victorian twins and the old trees and past the community garden where Maggie plants her growing things in the spring. It's
a long hill down to the raw west edge of the Penn campus,
and someone is calling my name. 

Listen.

Between towers,
beneath sculpture, over the bridge, down Locust Walk. Me on the silver disk of Maggie’s
trash-can sled, Maggie up ahead, the snow beneath us, our trail behind
us, the snow falling still. At the Ben bench Maggie turns toward Spruce and the
Quadrangle dorms, which are massive and brick and stone, like a fortress
carrying on, a blockade, and where the only way in is to belong.

She crosses
the street and turns east on the walk. Spruce Street tilts down, and the dorms
rise up, and there are lights in the leaded glass, turnstiles
in the arches, guards. From within the vast interior courtyards, we hear the sound
of snowball fights, laughter, instructions on the making of snowmen—Get up, Stand up, Get going—and we are a
parade two, we are a parade for no one; the snow keeps coming on.

Maggie’s red
hair has turned white. Her shoulders and her arms and the bottom of her dress have
turned white. Her boots are white and Maggie’s disappearing into the night and
we go—down Spruce to the end of the Quad, south along the east facade, west beside the south façade, and the fortress is holding, the
world is safely held. I close my eyes. Tip back. Let the snow tumble
in. When I open my eyes I see crystal stars between my lashes, the melting of stars. The lights in the
windows of the rooms are going out. One by one by one, and I slide by.

Everything
is vanishing, I say, and now is a long time ago.