I currently have three books doing splits on the floor beside my bed. Each one gets a little break from the carpet at night time or during nap time. I am reading Kate Morton’s, The Forgotten Garden, and it’s lovely so far. I’m obsessing over The Poet Laureate Anthology, that I scored at a book store going out of business. Apparently, Maxine Kumin and Anne Sexton were dear friends who “started most mornings with a call to each other. They would greet each other, then put the receiver down on their desks and speak across the house or room during the course of the day, trying out a line, reading a just- finished poem, venting about the length of their children’s naps.” I just about mail ordered my own literary BFF, after reading that, sheesh.

.Sometimes I feel so far behind with books, there are a million masterpieces waiting to be read, one hundred novels I could start at once. But I have to take it slow and enjoy what’s in front of my nose. When I finish a book I like to close it slowly and hold onto it for a minute, a small tribute to the author who was brave enough, or honest enough, whose talent or humor, or experience allowed them to write that first and last word.

Because for me, in that moment when the book is still warm and the last line still etched in my brain, I've found my own little scrap of courage. And the hope that one day I won't have to go looking for it anymore. That is why I have to keep opening and closing and searching and thanking God for words.