Chapter 13 #2
“You know, I was thinking…” I began. “Everyone’s poems will be so personal, so raw. It feels like we’re creating something bigger than just one evening’s entertainment. What if we made it into a book?”
He rubbed his hands together, obviously intrigued. “A book?”
“Something like that,” I replied. “The common thread that ties everyone to the group is the feeling of being understood—of sharing the loss, instead of being alone in it. People need books like that.”
It was one of the reasons I’d started writing poetry in the first place. Losing Lucy had closed me off from poetry for a long time. But now, I felt something beginning to stir in me again.
Henry looked at me curiously. “Do you mean to say that you would write it?” he asked. “I didn’t know you were a writer?”
I nearly dropped my glass. “Ah—” I stammered, laughing awkwardly.
“Well, I’m not. Not really. I enjoyed writing in school, and in journals and things, nothing serious”—a total lie—“but I have been writing some poetry lately. I’m sure I could pull it all together and shape it into something meaningful.
Perhaps you could write a poem or two yourself? We could add everyone’s poems.”
Henry’s eyes lit up. “Yes! What a wonderful idea. Well, we’d need to get everyone’s poems in before the event. We could give them a copy ahead of time, as a bit of motivation before reading on the evening. And you’d be able to print the book yourself?”
I nodded. “I believe it’s possible.”
Of course, it was possible. I knew exactly what went into making a book—formatting, layout, print specs, distribution, marketing. I’d done it all before, several times over. But I couldn’t tell Henry that. Not yet.
I stared into the garden, looking at the statues I had stumbled upon at a yard sale.
They were an odd collection of mythical creatures: a fairy, a unicorn, and a griffin, each softened by time and weather.
They were an odd collection, much like our group, and yet they somehow felt right. Out of place, yet perfectly fitting.
“I think it’s brilliant, Wren,” Henry said, grinning at me. “This could even be something shared with other grief groups. If I can get them going, that is. But it’d be such a great resource, a reminder that there is always a way forward.”
“Yes, I think so too,” I murmured.
“And I’ll help you, of course. However I can. That’s what librarians do, you know, we find answers.”
That made my chest tighten. I felt a flicker of guilt, like a thread pulled just a little too tightly.
Henry paused, his smile softening. “You know, you came into the group at just the right time. It’s like you were meant to be part of this poetry evening.
You’ve got such great ideas—are you sure you didn’t work as an editor back in New York?
Maybe The Guardian, New York Times?” He chuckled, but his words hit me like a warning bell.
I knew I had to change the subject, and fast. This conversation was veering too close to a place I wasn’t ready to go.
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” I said quickly, waving my hand.
“Just happy to contribute where I can.” I glanced away toward the garden, feeling my cheeks starting to flush.
I felt like an impostor. “Anyway,” I said, “I need this group”—I let out a small sigh, steeling myself—“because I was talking to Lucy.”
Henry looked perplexed.
“Before,” I added. “When you asked who I was talking to…it wasn’t the birds.”
He looked out into the garden as well.
“I suspected as much,” he replied. “Were you triggered by something?”
Was I ever. I was still thinking about Olivia and our kiss last night.
Not because I was trying to lose myself in someone else, but because I’d wanted to kiss her from the moment we met.
And since that kiss, something inside me had shifted.
Words had been flooding my mind, swirling like flashes of light, stringing themselves together in ways I couldn’t quite explain.
I finally wanted to write again. To capture the way her lips had felt on mine, how good she smelled, the way my heartbeat seemed to sync with hers as the rest of the world fell away.
It wasn’t just the kiss; it was everything she ignited within me.
For the first time since my life had fallen apart, I was running, thinking about writing, and wanting to be part of the world again.
But I was still mourning Lucy.
“Can you fall in love and heal from heartbreak at the same time?” I asked Henry.
He considered this a moment. “Well, it begs another question: can you love the light and learn from the darkness at the same time?”
“I suppose you can,” I replied.
“Why?” he asked curiously.
“Oh,” I stuttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Just a thought.”
Again, Henry looked at me as though he didn’t believe me.
“I think you can open yourself up to someone new, even if you are still healing from the absence of someone else, but only if you ask yourself the right questions—am I using this person to fill a void, or do I genuinely enjoy spending time with this person?”
“I love spending time with Olivia,” I admitted absently, staring at the slice of lemon in my glass.
Henry gasped. “You didn’t!”
I suddenly realized what I had just admitted.
“Oh my,” I replied. “Well, we just…”
He grinned from ear to ear. “You what!?”
“Kissed.” I sighed. “Last night, and I’ve felt like a schoolgirl ever since.”
Henry clapped, and it rang out through the front yard. He was always clapping.
“You know, I just knew it.”
I smiled into my lemonade.
“I’ll do it, Henry,” I said, to answer his earlier question. “I’ll help with the poetry evening.”