Sep 13, 2017
Years later it would be known as the place where she wrote several of her great works, but in its heyday it was simply home. It was where she got up tired and dressed without a shower because there wasn’t time before the kids got off to school. Where she did laundry and dishes and made unimpressive meals that fed the family; she loved to eat food and was okay at preparing it, but it certainly wasn’t her gift, not what rambled on through her thoughts between cereal bowls and diaper changes and backpacks. For that was something else all together, something passersby or even neighbors wouldn’t have gotten from the daily snapshot of her. It’s hard to tell, after all, that under regular clothes and a regular face lies a mind that is always writing.