They spoke of books and stories read, stories known by one and some by both, and of the second they gave greater time, better beginning points of mind.
Then from the books and stories read of library finds, dreams and histories of others, they turned to works and words of one another.
They knew little of each other, but by written words and stories told, they found foothold for the learning of one another.
She wrote of histories, emotions, and hurt. She called it grief, but he saw it different. That is a grace and gift of art—one is allowed to see and interpret works as they do, even if different than creating author’s. And sometimes when a thought is shared, author learns something of themselves they never or saw or knew—called out—in discernment of another’s see.
“May I speak as an outside observer?” he asked.
Smile and nod, she acquiesced.
Permission an encouraged in mood of nod and smile, he spoke on.
“You speak of grief and hurt,” he shared, “but I’m not sure that’s all it is. To all of it, you tell it with a beauty, an appreciation and sincerity, that tells a reverence for what is present as well for what is lost and gone to past.
In your art, it shows you feel and are attuned deeply with your emotions. Yes, there’s grief, but it’s also clear there is surviving and living love and that the way you write and tell—to me—communes the last far more than the firsts.
I always tell my kids there’s nothing wrong with crying, nothing wrong with feeling sad. It just shows that something mattered, that you cared for it a lot, and it’s a blessing to feel and care for things that way—especially the ones we love in our life.
I know there’s sadness there, the grief you reference when you tell, but I believe the love and beauty that you tell is greater than what you think’s the focus.
Maybe, hearing, you’ll see all that’s there as well—if you couldn’t and don’t already. You have a beautiful way of saying…”
His words were an affirmation, a seeing of what she knew but—alone—had not yet the sight to see or words to say; only a restless feeling left undefined. By another, it was given names: reverence, beauty, love.
To have definition gave new see; a soothe and peace to the restless and hurt of loss she’d known. Nothing was ever really gone—if you could put it in a story and, by, its memory as live returned.
Restaurant was mostly empty. Conversation died of attenuation into empty space. Ceiling of the restaurant shared character and history of its past: high vault ceilings in boxed and intricate moulding; green-painted walls of seeming infinite drawers of days when space was a hardware store for small, and still resilient, town.
She knew the history of the drawers: endless array of special screws, nuts and bolts organized and stored within; each specific to function, for a purpose, and a piece—reverence for past that would not return. Still, by his say, she saw then too—and more complete—the beauty in, love and reverence for, story of living-present.
She lacked the words right then but knew—one day it’d speak as story.