i opened my address book the other day and found people i haven't considered from places i don't intend to visit. some sentimental string tethers me to this outdated tome of names that no longer appear in my life. the pages tell stories, yet i'm not certain of my drive to re-tell, to re-think.
so i keep it on a bookshelf, gathering dust, and every so often i say, "i need a new address book."
and then i read this, from carson mccullers:
"There's nothing that makes you so aware of the improvisation of human existence as a song unfinished. Or an old address book."
she's speaking to me, it's true. i think i'll hang on to my old address book a few decades more.