I tried to get away. I did get away. But everywhere I went, things followed. It was nice to be able to think them through to the end. I didn't have interruptions and there was this guy....tall and sweet....a good listener and knows how to hold a hand. We were carrying some of the same weights but felt differently about them, which is fine. It keeps things from being boring.
I tell you, we went to Charleston, South Carolina where the sun was on display and the palmetta trees were rustling and the history demands to be observed. Stunning and startling and unsettling all at once. I arrived thinking about Afghanistan and found myself immersed in the Civil War and came home wondering about Libya. I hardly recognize myself.
One thing that I rediscovered was poetry. We stumbled upon a cafe where they have a featured Carolina poet who reads for a bit and then the locals hit the mike with song or their own poems. There was whooping and hollering and the reminder that we all seek solace in words that bring meaning to the seemingly senseless things around us.
I left that cafe with a slim volume of poetry written by a 75 year old man completely devoted to his wife whom he lost 2 years ago. It's called The Jane Poems and in it I will learn their story. Why this is important to me is not yet clear. For now, it's enough to know that someone out there was able to mine their life for the moments that mattered and found a way to capture and share them. This seems like a good thing to carry next to all the other stuff. Somehow it fits even if I don't understand exactly how.