Wanting to read poems I love and started with Neruda, but my choice didn’t satisfy the hunger. Realized that I needed my favorite poem by Octavio Paz, and went to the living room where all the poetry is, mostly shelved but some waiting patiently for me to unbox or put them in order.
Fear rising as I search and see almost everyone except Sr. Paz, I remind myself that no one steals poetry and that it must be here.
Heading over to the cases near my piano, I see beloved books, including Raymond’s cousin, Victor Hernandez Cruz’ work, and my eye falls happily and greedily on Octavio’s works. Relieved, I open the first page of his Early Poems, knowing that the poem I seek is there, waiting to again be read and loved.
To my surprise, I see his forgotten handwriting, the inscription where he first misspelled my name and corrected it. No big whoop, just the usual impersonal “Por Anjana Cruz” but with it, a flood of memories, including his interest in my name, the memory of who I was back then, and how often poetry and trees have saved my life, bringing me back from the edge, restoring my balance and sense of peace.