I feel like something that has been asleep for a long time is waking up, like a dead limb. The moon is closing over this weekend, which seems fitting. The city smells like snow and pastries, jazz musicians on the corners with men in black beanie hats clutching cups of coffee watching them play. I'm monochromatic with blonde hair, gold earrings, tawny coat, and the hobos bow to me when I clip by as if they know I am their librarian champion. The conference freebies astonish me, and my shoulders are bruised from the 60 pounds of books I lugged into the post office. Liberated from the display floors, I flee into the heart of downtown Seattle, spreading across the couches in Anthropologie.
In the warm homes of my friends, I'm safe. I read bedtime stories to my friend's young son, wishing Gavin were on my lap as well. Looking out at the crisp mountains and seeing something very different than what I set out to see: everything.
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