When she wasn’t home, I became alarmed; she was always home.
Fear of stubbing her toe on a sidewalk seam
kept her reclusive.
Everything looked normal, the empty bookshelves stood.
The hundreds of typed pages, sometimes printed with only
one or two words, lay strewn about the hardwood floors,
and topped empty tea mugs and carefully placed books.
I tiptoe around Emily Dickinson, Anne, Emily and Charlotte Bronte;
careful to not knock Edgar Allan Poe from his precarious perch
atop the cuckoo clock, worn and stopped, or Charles Dickens
from an odd looking bust of John Adams. Yes, everything
was as usual, and accounted for, but her.
She was missing from her post at the old typewriter, in her old wicker chair.
Normally she’d be there, frantically typing click-clack-click, letter by letter and page by page before adding five or six to the piles at her feet and on the…
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