The Reading

As I was rounding the corner to walk the last half-block to this hall, I didn't know for sure which way to turn, which I was turning, what he had to say, and whether or not people would listen. I rounded the corner, I walked the stretch almost blinded, one foot landing in front of the other nevertheless, both of them moving me on, intending to throw me into some public space, into a spotlight. And I let them. I always do.

As I was gaining on the doorway, assurances spoke themselves to me that this time this showing would be different, greater, that is, complete. By the time I crossed through, I was not so certain. I worried for a moment that I was not even living, that all the faces inside would only chip away at my granite heart.

But I let myself still be taken by the hand, be led toward the pool of light raised several feet off the floor. Only steps from the stage, I still planned to turn around, to say I cannot do this, I cannot say the things you expect me to say. I have to offer only mongrel tries and manic almosts that could never come close to the wonder of the closeness of the people you love. I wanted to stop and say go out there and find those people, they are waiting for you. Find them quickly. There isn't much time.

There is never enough time, and the halls will never be big enough to hold all the attempts. I will never finally succeed, so I will never stop walking the home stretches to stages. And I will never stop entering tall rooms with hungry faces. I will be waiting and wanting to hear, "Yes! These are the ways I have always felt too. We must be the puzzle pieces of one body. We must be hearing each other now. We must be living."

I entered this room. I walked down the aisle. I slowly scaled three short steps. And I did not win. I did not win. I hope I never do.