On Meeting Morrison

The effort we put into getting lecture tickets

was unbelievable. Had I put that much effort and

dedication into any other aspect of my life, I’d be rich and famous

or even published.

A hurricane prevented us from meeting another author,

but that’s fine. “It’s not like she’s Toni Morrison.”

There was another acclaimed writer. My nervous chatter evoked a smile

of amusement and gratitude in her. I could handle that. 

What could I say to Toni Morrison?

Driving to meet Morrison, I thought of what she meant to me.

The supreme storyteller. Woman of strength and intellect.

Words poised themselves at her pen to form

knives that dive into your soul,

knives that make your scars bleed.

They stole my milk.

The maternal instinct to kill a child to save her.

The simple beauty you see when you open

your eyes to the ugliness.

To write like her, we cannot do it. Few mortals possess this skill.

We struggle to find

words

plots

time

a place in our lives to write.

We who dream of one acceptance letter from a publisher cannot

dream of a Nobel.

Kripa and I cut the end of the lecture

to secure a place in line. Stood in the long library hallway,

high ceilings echoed footsteps on stone and amplified hushed tones, 

drowning out any sounds of the lecture. We calculated the distance from the table, the number

of bodies and the books they held. We would make it.

We rehearsed what we would say: “We love your work.”

Kripa wanted a signature on a card for a special patient who“loves your work.”

We watched the faces of those who returned with signed copies

or a mere glimpse of her majestic Author.

They beamed, they glowed. They had seen the blessed Writer.

We longed to be there and feel her Power.

We hoped she would endow us with her secrets,

accept our words, our gratitude.

We hoped we would gain a bit of the fairy dust that dances in her aura, that

would make us write as she does.

Yet, we were only nameless faces in line. Bodies with back packs and

winter coats, scarves swaddling our throats as we clutched dog-eared copies

of Beloved or glossy new ones from the table outside.

We approached the table only to perform a silent

exchange of a book for a signature.

She glanced at me with curiosity

as I requested a handshake. She complied softly.

As Kripa stepped ahead, the lights of a cameraman

forced the Author to look away.

Their eyes barely met.

In moments we were walking away. Our books suddenly seemed

empty and Kripa’s card was blank. We made our way through the crowd,

a queue of anticipation and excitement, meandering through the Hall. 
 Should we tell them?

As we left the library with coffee in styrofoam cups, 
we pulled hoods over our heads, 
careful not to let the rain fall on our books or coffee.