without

I just read a book of poetry in twenty minutes at the library while compiling research for a project. The book completely absorbed me. Pulled me by my bones into the poet's state of mind. And I can't stop thinking about it.

It's called "Without" and it's by Donald Hall. It's a collection of poetry about the sickness and passing away of his wife, a fellow poet named Jane Kenyon. It was so close and sore. So beautiful and heartwrenching.

I cried under the brim of my hat at the table amidst students who were all concentrating on their work, heads bent, pencils scribbling. And I was turning pagest as fast as I could, letting a big tear drop slip down my cheek.

And I tried to go back to planning my research presentation, but I couldn't. I need to sit and think about Jane; I need to let her settle in my mind before I can move on. I need to let my own experiences with cancer and best friends settle down, return to the pit of my stomach where they usually sit. Let Jane and Tanya sit in the pit of my stomach and not interfere so much with my heart so that I can get some work done.

There is so much work to be done.

And so many things I haven't.