A curve

The other day I was perusing one of our bookshelves and I pulled down a copy of Crazyhorse, a publication put out by the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. I have no idea when I bought it, but I am notorious for picking up books like that when I am out and about. This issue is from Winter 1998. I checked out some of the poetry, and then I came across an essay about poet Lynda Hull. It is so very interesting, I am half way through and I am lapping up each detail about her. Reading the essay, I was taken right back to Iowa City and the people that I encountered that were in the Writers Workshop. I could almost smell the English building. The tall windows, the old floors. And then I was reminded of this big old house that was on a corner, but not the corner of an intersection, more like a curve in the road, the same road (of course it was a brick road). The house had been converted in to small apartments. Whenever I walked by it I imagined myself nestled in one of the rooms upstairs, having a little lamp, moving the curtains aside to see a view of the river that sat just beyond the tree tops. Sometimes when I think of this house I think that it wasn't even really inhabitable, that it was actually decaying. No one may have even lived there. My memories are slowly fading. I should try to capture more of them here.