November 4th, 2014

The beautiful older woman at the coffee shop compliments me on my purse, which is really more
of a saddlebag. She had one like it in 1969. I wonder how many memories she is fitting into it now
as she stares fondly at the worn leather in the slants of morning light. Later, Genna and I walk to vote,
only I haven't registered so I sit impotently against the cold white-painted cinderblock wall of the church cellar. I think about the steadiness of this church on South Whitney, the faithfulness of it,
how like an open hand it is. How consistently it gives itself to the first of the month food stamps
and voting days, the colored linoleum tiles always bearing all that weight. Once, on a day when
I was sad, I walked home from Tisane in the late afternoon through the back ally that comes out
across from the church. The sun was setting through the window and the bare tree in front of the church was perfectly framed in the textured stained-glass glow. It was either early spring or late fall - some inbetween time I love and feel undone by. Tonight Davia and I walked 7 miles through West Hartford, first the gardens, then the neighborhoods, then the town center; it is like walking through the evolution of culture and society. I say "I'm sorry" in many different ways. I think she hears them all. How quickly silence builds fences! How thoroughly laughter knocks them down!