But I am alone in this houseful of people. There are none else who share this love. Not here.
T.S. Elliot and Emily Dickenson sit beside me, offering such treasures that no one else seems to recognize.
I am both enraged and ashamed. I am dumbstruck.
Poe sits above me and tempts my imagination, but I am the only one with enough patience to enjoy such a fine and delicious treat.
Milosz makes frames for my emotions. Dahl sits down to share an evil laugh. Hawthorne engages me in the finest depths of guilt. Buck reminds me what is just and good. Both Lewis and Carrol will walk with me along their separate paths. Homer and Virgil and Melville too, though most nights are usually too short to enjoy their company. Bradbury, Flaubert, Silverstein...when will there be enough time?
Figures crowd the room around my shelves, and only I can see. They smile silently at me, each knowing too well that part of my soul they alone have touched and spoken to. I carry them always with and within me, for the lessons and tools they have given have made me strong and rich.
Oh, how I am loathe to let those others be content without these gifts. But their time will come. They will find their way.
Or they will never truly know me.
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