MY MOTHER LOVED that poem, “ ‘Hope’ Is the Thing with Feathers.” A cross-stitch of it hung at the end of our hallway and even though I saw it every evening on my way to bed, it’s one of those things that I stopped noticing because I was so used to its being part of the landscape.
But then I heard the opening refrain, and I remembered it. And I knew right away that that librarian was dressed as Emily Dickinson.
Doesn’t really explain her wild hair, though.
Or the gloves.
Or why, when I looked at her, I couldn’t stop looking at her, as if her face were a magnet and my eyes were made of steel. Maybe it was because she had this strange quality about her—almost feral. Like a back-alley cat that jumps at sudden movements and runs in the opposite direction of people. To be honest, she looked a little like a mental institution patient in that getup.
But later that night, as I crack open Breaking Dawn and her face flashes in my mind for the third time, unbidden, I have to admit—she is quite possibly the most beautiful insane woman I’ve ever seen.