calm confusion

She looked out onto the grey waters, watching the wind swirl over the waves and change direction onto the shore. In her deep blue cotton dress, the air felt like cold daggers against her aged skin. A tiny smile played on her lips, as she stood lost in her daydreams. Any moment now, he would be home. He would walk up onto the porch and say to her back, “ Something smells like Earl Grey.” She wouldn’t have to turn around for him to know she was smiling. He would leave her and walk inside, pour two cups of tea in the China they were given 50 years ago for their wedding. Hearing the clink of the cups, she would turn around and looks up at a face she could draw in the darkness, every crease, every curve, and every emotion. They would stand together and look out onto the ocean, cold from the wind, warm from the tea. Behind them the house will grow dark, and the sky before them illuminate with the setting sun. With a sip of hot tea...it was meant to be

I sat there unable to concentrate on what he was reading. All I could hear was the solid base sound of my heartbeat and the rapid breathing of my sister. I looked around the auditorium at the one thousand men and woman silently inhaling every word he said. It was then I realized I was not alone. No matter how much I imagine myself as the person most influenced by this man and his work, that night proved I was wrong. Whatever their reasons were for being there, for listening patiently as he read from his books, for lining up with tattered old books lovingly snuggled into their arms, it was evident that he is loved by many. I listened to him bring his words to life. I saw the feeling in his eyes as he read from Miguel Street, watching as he let little pieces of himself shine through his words. This was a writer unlike any other: one able to hide himself between the lines of his chapters, able to smile cynically at the world for their inability to reveal his secrets. I would never forget ...