I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
My favorite line from a favorite poem, Preludes by T.S. Eliot. I remember when I first read this poem. This line took my breath away, then.
Tonight, it made me cry.
***
It was the summer after my Freshman year of college. I decided to stay up at school with my boyfriend at the time, and on the weekends, we would take long drives on quiet roads through the center of the state. We’d visit state parks, small sandy patches of land, lakes or ponds or rivers, I am now not sure what they were. I would drive, and it would be sunny, and he would sit in the passenger seat, his legs stretched out and resting on the dashboard, and he would read to me. We had bought a stack of big, old books for one dollar at a flea market: “The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway” and “Great American Short Stories” and some other anthologies, all faded and mustard yellow or brown. And he would read these stories out loud, a wonderful storyteller, he was.Roman Fever. The Most Dangerous Game. Hills Like White Elephants.And I fell in love. With the characters. And the backdrops. And every surprise. And every nuance. Every word.
***
Today, my husband sent me a message on is way to work; He had just read a passage in his book that made him stop and marvel. He read it to me, tonight, in bed, and it was like he was painting for me as he recited the words. Velvety words. Evocative imagery. It was beautiful. And it made me want to read my favorite poem. So, I read Preludes.
And I cried.
And I fell in love all over again.