14 February 2008. Hole in the sky where the pine tree once stood--narrow pinnacle shooting into the heavens. Orion again. This morning: cold and very clear. Manager Mimi in Starbucks, her appealingly braided hair pulled up on either side, like Virginia or the Carolinas from an earlier age--leaning over the dark melamine counter with its industrially recessed holes, cleaning and polishing. Smiling.
In front now, warm carmine eggplant vest--baseball cap tucked low and a few whisps of grayish-white hair, Lee at work as well, salvaging, something from the bin, god knows what, a plus in the universe. Pulse, the rhythm of conviction. As with Emily, from the morning class, who asks me brightly, "What are you giving your wife for Valentine's Day?" The question itself--a world taken for granted. "Well, yesterday she read me the saddest poem I've ever heard." Quizzical look. "I listened..."
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