Neatly, I sat tucked,
a stowaway in her bag.
We were going on a field trip
to one of her favourite places,
to meet new faces
in old, familiar spaces.
It wasn't yet my time to shine.
That wouldn't come for another week,
but I got to tag along
and witness what was coming:
the practice of presence
that allows another to be seen and held
at junctions and thresholds of change.
The very thing she writes about,
the through line of her story.
Countless authors gathered,
each blessed with a seat at the table,
an invitation to feel connected
to the creativity and compulsion
that drives women to tell their story,
words and images on a page,
bound into one neat stack
that helps make sense
of what felt senseless in the moment.
Memoirs of lineage.
Poems of pain and mending.
Non-fiction masked as fiction,
and fiction dressed up as fact.
Different ages, nationalities, genres,
one impetus:
the meaning and mending of a life
made full through perseverance and purpose.
All of it held and curated
by the hearts and hands around her,
her own among them.
At one point she paused,
took me out into the light,
and snapped a photo of me by a sign
celebrating authors,
a declaration and a dream in one frame.
One that says,
"I'm here.
Soon to be launched into the world.
And one day
I'll be here again,
at this festival,
sharing my own work."
Yet she,
she didn't think the day was about her.
Only on the drive home
did she realize what day it was:
the day her entire world changed,
the day that came before
the story she wrote down.
The one I carry.
A day once marked
by grief and careful condolence,
now one of new beginnings
and conscious connections.