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,
The things they brought with them to the convent did not belong to them. They came from other people’s lives: