I'm so far away from the Laundress in these early, snowy days of spring in Rhode Island that I fear I can never return here. I have strayed into the deep waters of poetry in Knot-In-Line. I think I'm drowning. I don't know what I'm doing, or why I'm pressing forward on a path I never intended to take. It's a detour that threatens to suck me into a tunnel of no return.
How is it that a novel seems to have become a confessional. What is there to tell? That is truly the question here. I am stuck in my own laundry room today, washing for others, listening to the drone of the huge wood chipper outside - the grind and spit of the trunks that met their death to bring us light, relieve the heavy darkness of our white pine canopy.
I tap my fingers so quick and lightly across the keyboard, back and forth, unthinking, yet perhaps praying the letters to tell me a story on their own - like a song on piano keys. No, they don't know her any better than I do. The best I can promise myself now is to keep her name in the side-bar of Knot-In-Line --- for now --- until ---