Resurrection seems an unlikely notion for contemporary minds.
All of them were small and narrow, Emily Dickinson beds situated in modest rooms. Once I journeyed to Amherst, Mass., solely to see Emily Dickinson’s bedroom, to breathe the sacred air. As luck would have it, I had come the wrong day for tours and was left on the stoop of the Homestead, breathing the spring air. There I pondered the 300 feet to the Evergreens next door and the well-worn path taken by Emily and her best friend, her sister-in-law, Sue.
The next afternoon Emily’s door was opened and I joined a group in a downstairs parlor where we endured a half-hour talk devoid of poetry. Finally, we were led up the stairs to the landing where Emily had stood, out of sight, above the chatter of company down in the parlor we had just left. She had little use for chatter, preferring to send a short poem, perhaps a few flowers down to the company. Lagging behind the group, I ran my hand along the banister and listened to Emily’s voice.
Had I not seen the Sun