I see a fountain sprinkling, as if onto the diners in the sunshine, at the restaurant across the street. A vision within a vision as I look through my window and theirs at waiters carrying wine glasses. It looks like Europe in there. In here I am looking at piles of writing, drawing, and photographs. Wondering what to do with it and how much it matters. Both a lot and not at all, it seems.  Moved by re-reading the exegesis I wrote for the PhD, the clarity and depth of it. Tears rose as I read sentences in it, then again as I peered into the excerpts of twenty-six years of diaries. The folders of family history. Notebooks with poignant and funny things parents and son said to me. The novel-in-progress waits for my daily visit. The first one, Lucy, go see., pulls at my pant leg, asking “when are you going to introduce me to more people?”

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