DELIA OWENS, ‘WHERE THE CRAWDADS SING’
“Don’t go thinking poetry’s just for sissies. There’s mushy love poems, for sure, but there’s also funny ones, lots about nature, war even. Whole point of it —— they make ya feel something.” His dad had told him many times that the definition of a real man is one who cries without shame, reads poetry with his heart, feels opera in his soul, and does what’s necessary to defend a woman.
The rest of the small half-moon beach was covered in a thick layer of broken shells, a jumble of crustacean parts, and crab claws. Shells the best secret-keepers of all.
Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly.
But just as her collection grew, so did her loneliness. A pain as large as her heart lived in her chest. Nothing eased it. Not the gulls, not a splendid sunset, not the rarest of shells.
Life had made her an expert at mashing feelings into a storable size. But loneliness has a compass of its own.
She laughed for his sake, something she’d never done. Giving away another piece of herself just to have someone else.
Unfortunately, gravity holds no sway on human thought, and the high school text still taught that apples fall to the ground because of a powerful force from the Earth.
She smiled at him.
Then thought, Like everything else in the universe, we tumble toward those of higher mass.
But a life defined by rejection. As the sky and clouds struggled overhead, she said out loud, “I have to do life alone. But I knew this. I’ve known a long time that people don’t stay.”
If anyone understood loneliness, the moon would.
Let’s face it, a lot of times love doesn’t work out. Yet even when it fails, it connects you and the others and, in the end, that is all you have, the connections.
You just forget about the nonsense and continue your amazing work.
To the Feather Boy
Thank you
From the Marsh Girl