on writing

Did I ever tell you where I picked that up? By all means,
have a seat. I have coffee on, you must stay, my friend. No, not there, the dog is shedding and you’d end up with mohair pants. Bring it over here by the fire. Yes, it’s a hand. A woman named Willow gave it to me. Yes, first name. No, I believe I’d never heard that name for a woman either. And the only woman I’d ever met with orange eyes. At least I think so, the sky was blanketed near sunset and she stood before me with the Sun at my back, orange light coming from the end of the world reflecting in her eyes. The cottage down the pasture lane, I know you’ve been by there. The black heavy gate with the embedded cast iron magpie. Yes, that’s her.
I’d dropped off a bundle of books. Saw her there. We talked and then we said goodbye. That hand came gift wrapped the next morning at the back door. We talked outside the After Hours Bookstore. Orange eyes. It was cold, I had on a hat with ear flaps. She called me Elmer Fudd. She uses a typewriter and enjoys. Enjoys writing. Oh yes, that’s important. Old fashioned she said, but I told her no, I use pencil by hand. That’s older. But what I really wanted to do, I said, was use spray cans on the side of a barn. She smiled I remember. Do you want coffee? No? You’ll stay for dinner? I’m preparing a small dinner soon. Small like the old automats from the city. Remember those small platters? They were so good even though the company was so bad. Lovely steamed windows, men in hats, women with pearls, but you never knew who’d you be sitting next to.
Pencil gives a chance to better a draft I said. Work it over. Refining. Conveying every sensation. Like you’re standing in someone else’s shoes. Like Atticus Finch tells Scout. I should say Harper Lee tells Atticus to Scout. Oh, how I write in margins. By hand.