The Echo of Old Books

by Barbara Davis

“Poems,” I say simply. “You write poetry?” I see I’ve surprised you. I’ve surprised myself too. I haven’t thought of those silly poems in years, and I wonder why they’ve suddenly sprung to mind. “I was a girl. It’s what girls do. Write silly poems about our angst.” “Love poems?” I toss my head with a little laugh, dimly aware that the gesture might be mistaken for a flirtation. “What did I know about love? I was a child. No. I wrote nonsense. Rubbish about a caged bird who dreamed of leaving her bars behind, of soaring high above the city and flying far, far away. And there was one about being lost in one of those hedge mazes. The hedges kept growing taller and taller and I couldn’t find my way out.” “Sounds deep.” “It was tosh, as they say on your side of the pond. But I was a fanatic about poetry back then. I read everything I could get my hands on, some of it unacceptable for a girl my age. I was convinced I was going to be Elizabeth Barrett Browning when I grew up.” You study me strangely, as if searching for something. “When were you going to tell me this?” The question feels odd, the kind of thing you ask someone you’ve known for years. “Tell you how? When? We’ve only just met.” Your mouth curls in a way that’s vaguely sensual. “I keep forgetting.”

I like this a lot!