This story feels so true to me and yet pieces of it aren't my personal story. I don't know what the rules are here for stories vs personal truth and what is memory but fiction and what is truth -- emotional or literal and oh well, here it is. And it came out of wanting to write about what I don't know.

This sounds so intimate. So essentially human. I see dried flowers. I lean over to remember the smell. Of them. Of my grandmother. Of the time she looked at me with compassion when no one else in the room understood my story. She touched my shoulder. She leaned over and whispered – You keep writing, girl. I like it.

This to me is sacred.

The sweet softness of the back of Amy’s hand. The plumpness. The dimples. the gentle waving of her fists. My large hand easily enclosing her clenched fist. And the way she turns her face toward me, her hazel eyes seeking mine.

This to me is sacred.

My steno pad open to this page. My pen comfortable in my right hand. The black ink flowing onto pale green paper. The transfer of feeling from inside to outside. The translation. The trust that I am only the pen.

The way Bête looks at me. The way her yellow eyes follow me. The way she turned over her life and ultimately her death to me. The sense that her presence in my life was a divine gift. And I still pray I honored it and her enough. I miss her. I miss her essential cat-ness.

This to me is sacred.

Being fully present. As I wedge myself into the space between the first seat and the back of the driver’s compartment on the F train and I’m totally aware of the wheels in their tracks and the balance of old and new. Old trolleys from Baltimore or Italy. Blackberries and nextbus.com. Local produce and books of great streets from around the world.

This, to me, is also sacred.

The glanc e from David. The one that… really all the glances from David. And to David. That say “Hi.” That say “Later.” That say “Love.” That feel like his hand on my arm, my back. His whisper in my ear. His desire for me. My trust in him. It is food

It is sacred.

Writing. That quality of attention. That fully present-ness.

Writing. Speaking my truth. Finding my own meaning. Laughter.

Waling is sacred. The fog slipping down the hills near the Waldo Tunnel. The slow emergence of a face from shadow. A suggestion. The hint of movement. Dim hallways in cathedrals. Open books. Hope.

This to me is sacred.

Sharing a meal. Preparing dinner with Georgia. Drinking scotch, or Irish whiskey. Being present at my mother’s death.

Why do I think all my life is sacred?

And what happens to my desire to write about what I don’t know?