Invited in from the Street

 

Invited in from the Street

 

Part of you dissolves, melts away when you cannot do what you used to do.  The inspirations need a different source to feed on. So, when I was invited by a woman on the street to join a writing group at the house I was passing, I jumped or rather slowly followed her with my walking stick up the ramp and into the house.  As I told the man, my husband later, I didn’t think of my safety, what was beyond the doors. I was being noticed, I was wanted, and I went.

I was surrounded by a group sitting in a circle, on chairs and a love seat. There was only one young person without the white or gray of years gone by in the group.  I asked where I could take a seat and choose a chair with arms. I was without my walking stick. I parked it in the living room with my hat and wind breaker. I was hopeful to get up out of the chair without much difficulty. I was right. When the time came, I stood up and moved out of room to retrieve my things before I left with ease.

They were a writing group. Getting together to mainly share memoirs of things happening in their lives. The youngest of the group, a young man later shared a fantasy piece. They introduced themselves while my mind was a tumble of faces being matched to new names. They were lucky. There was only one of me and I shared my name with a member of the group, a plus for them as a way of remembering it.

After the introductions, they got on with it. They read from handwritten scribbles, typed written sheets. One refrained from reading as her eyesight was poor, and the notes were unforgiving to the eyes. When they got to me, I had nothing to offer but I rambled. Here is a bit.

                                ****

As I sit here, looking at blue socks with cats,

I am surrounded by those I do not know.

I struggle with names and faces

As I look around at those I do not know.

                                ****

The group continued with their offerings of days gone by, lost in the past, sometimes moments shared with others until one woman shared the writings of her husband now gone. She claimed she was not a writer, I would claim she was wrong. Afterall, reading the works of others enable you to be a writer as you grasp the words, the sounds, and find meaning. I write because the words huddle there, hounding me, taunting my thoughts until in desperation I submit to the pen on the page, typing at the keyboard, whispering into a recorder. Not all days leave me sweating at my brow with inspiration beckoning but never coming. Some days I receive gifts. Those are the days I am grateful.

I have included a poem of sorts from my encounter.

                                ****

I sit here looking

At blue socks with cats.

At a face I do not know

In this room of strangers,

Names fluttering in the light

Not attached to anyone.

 

A woman sits in a corner

Of a couch, her name

Identical to my own

And she speaks of memories

For Jerusalem, of places

I will never see.

 

I will call you L

Sweet old thing on the other end

Of the couch. Her story is filled

With fondness of a celebration

Being with her family and friends until the end of the day

Fills the hour with conversation.

I have nothing to offer

But ramblings, observations

Of the moment as I sit.

I listen. Repeating names

Over faces in hopes, I will

Have them filed. In the caverns, with threads to pull on

For another day.

 

On my right is a story

Filled with imagery of glory

Celebrating a holiday long past.

The writer tells of a woman filling the space

With the magnificence of her costume.

She is portraying Lady Liberty.

 

We go fishing with a man seated here in a chair.

So much I do not know.  Having only thrown my fishing line

Baited with worms into creeks, and rivers.

Inside my mind, I lick my lips, and I dream of halibut, and sole freshly caught.

Though I am not hungry.

 

Her husband is long gone now

But today in this room

His voice rumbles on. His wife says she is not a writer. She is a reader.

And she reads on, and on of a day in which her hero returns.

Tired, worn, with indeed having carried the cares of the world

On his shoulders from steep hills of green.

 

A young man reads. From his corner

A tale of the sometimes invisible

Bigfoot and friends on a rescue.

Penguins were never so big

But a creature on a mission

Adapts. Secure in its costume.

It is necessary.

 

Our hostess, the lady of the house reads

Her memories fill the room, and I rejoice in sharing,

These moments of other lives.

They are seeing a play outside.

Not one I know, not Shakespeare

Or Death of a Salesman or

Jaunty songs reflecting life.

But of life beyond the stars.

Star Trek.

 

I was taken off the street

Welcomed in

To sit among strangers

And I, someone unknown

Was welcomed, stolen from

My morning walk.