The house, too, was like this,
over painted, over lovely–
the world is like this.
– H. D. The Gift
It was a perfect autumn evening when I walked home from A’s house on Halloween. Near full moon, deep blue sky, orange street lights pouring over the leaf covered sidewalk. My shoes barely made a sound, my skirt puffed out beneath my coat. On almost every corner laughter spilled out of windows, glasses clinked and plates clattered.
It’s a few days later now, and the walk is still inside me somewhere. Caught in my ribcage maybe, or tucked beneath my shin bone.
C picked an H. D. book for book club, and her simple lines have me excavating text again. There is something satisfying about digging deeper and deeper. About unearthing.