Old Friends Resurfacing
It is 9:30 at night. My husband is slinging drinks and a storm just passed over our house. I watched it from the bathtub, getting out when the lightning felt too close, getting back in to watch the rain because rain is best watched from inside a car or train or bathtub. Nighttime is when I draft, edit, and research potential venues, something I find overwhelming. Yes, I swim in the waves of the interwebs and I don’t know which way I’m swimming, but tonight I came across a few college friends that are poets in my internet wanderings through poetry journals and presses, and I felt incredibly excited. And relieved. That I’m not the only poet from college days that is still on this wild and quiet ride. “We are still doing it, ” I kept thinking. “We are doing it still.” I felt this wave of pride for us, for all of us that are doing this difficult thing, for whatever it amounts to or means seems to be of far less consequence than the mere truth of our continuing to write our poems.