It’s like the memory of my mother calling my name or the feeling of my first library card, plastic and colorful in my hand. It’s like kissing Saint or kneeling before Auden. It’s like having someone trace pain up and down my body until the world makes sense again. It’s like the smell of old books and the sound of thick-leaved trees in a summer storm and the chatter of a clear river over bright stones. It’s home and it’s not. It’s old and it’s young, and it’s far and it’s near, and it’s in my body and also dancing along my skin, dancing away too fast for me to grab at it.
