This is a story that will be well told, I know it; but a sadness engulfs me because I will never know it.
There is a distance and space between me and the writer, a barricade of tar and gravel that I am not allowed to cross. A unseen boundary that has been enforced by words. The very same words that might be in the writer’s story, “never cross the street alone!”
These words my Mother has imprinted in my brain which in turn has created invisible shackles for my feet. I will never cross the street alone… not until my mother says I can.
So now, I stand on the other side, in the disappearing light of the evening, staring across to the window of the bookstore; not seeing anything but the silhouette of a man at a desk. In this hands, clearly illuminated by the light from the lamp on the desk is a quill dancing from left to right on top of a book; leaving in its wake, the imprint of words that will shackle a reader to it, page by page.
Image courtesy Flickr Via Neil Conway