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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=518410" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Week Later</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A week later, I said to a friend: I don't<br>think I could ever write about it.<br>Maybe in a year I could write something.<br>There is something in me maybe someday<br>to be written; now it is folded, and folded,<br>and folded, like a note in school. And in my dream<br>someone was playing jacks, and in the air there was a<br>huge, thrown, tilted jack<br>on fire. And when I woke up, I found myself<br>counting the days since I had last seen<br>my husband-only two years, and some weeks,<br>and hours. We had signed the papers and come down to the<br>ground floor of the Chrysler Building,<br>the intact beauty of its lobby around us<br>like a king's tomb, on the ceiling the little<br>painted plane, in the mural, flying. And it<br>entered my strictured heart, this morning,<br>slightly, shyly as if warily,<br>untamed, a greater sense of the sweetness<br>and plenty of his ongoing life,<br>unknown to me, unseen by me,<br>unheard, untouched-but known, seen,<br>heard, touched. And it came to me,<br>for moments at a time, moment after moment,<br>to be glad for him that he is with the one<br>he feels was meant for him. And I thought of my<br>mother, minutes from her death, eighty-five<br>years from her birth, the almost warbler<br>bones of her shoulder under my hand, the<br>eggshell skull, as she lay in some peace<br>in the clean sheets, and I could tell her the best<br>of my poor, partial love, I could sing her<br>out with it, I saw the luck<br>and luxury of that hour.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Anonymous submission.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Sharon+Olds">Sharon Olds</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=518410" data-title="A Week Later de Sharon Olds" data-description="A week later, I said to a friend: I don't
think I could ever write about it.
Maybe in a year I could write something.
There is something in me maybe someday
to be written; now it is folded, and folded,
and folded, like a note in school. And in my ..."></div>
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