Looking For a Writers Group
We returned from a long trip to an answering
machine surely exhausted by its endless blinking.
Among its many messages was one from
a vigorous sounding man named Charlie.
He had heard an announcement about our writers
group at a local book store on PBS;
Would I call him back to answer a few questions?
I dialed the number and a woman answered.
I explained I was responding to a message
from a fellow named Charlie who was looking
for a writers group. A cavernous silence followed
and what I thought was hysterical laughter.
My father has Alzheimers, she stammered at last.
He wants to write a book, she blurted
before bursting into a storm of grieved sobbing.
Again a vast and hollow silence followed
while I groped within to compose myself.
You’re in great pain, I babbled the obvious.
Yes, she responded. I’m sorry.
I understand, I answered, adding, I’m sorry too.
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Sorrier than I could say, for a relentless fear
reverberated through me still from the evening before
when someone asked me where we had lived
before we moved here thirty-four years ago and for
an interval that felt like forever I could not remember.
I know why Charlie looks for a writers group.
I know why he is desperate to corral his words
between the covers of a book.
I know why he wants to tame them
so they can work for him again.
I know why his daughter weeps.
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