A college professor visited the coffeeshop with his wife yesterday. He ordered a mocha, she a macchiato. I was not sure if it was okay to hug them or not, and so I decided against it. But perhaps they could read my eyes and see it resting there.
Professor Lott told me that one year from now the College of Charleston will offer an MFA program in writing. My heart soars at the idea, but I wonder if it is worth the expense of more student loans. More debt, and for how long?
My father said to me recently, "I have seen you live others' dreams for a long time, Laura. I want to see you pursue your own."
I needn't ask myself what it is that makes my heart glad; it is refining the way I explain to you the experience of interacting with a child, how it feels to pour a latte correctly for a stranger or a friend, details about what it means to travel through this life. It is explaining the human experience in a way that becomes tactile enough that what I present to you from my heart can be easily grasped and if you like, you can carry it, too.
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