and after the lights were out
and after my mother had kissed me goodnight
I would pull from under my pillow
the book, the flashlight, and for hours
in the quiet house, no matter how difficult
the day had been, no matter how low I felt,
for those hours I was so glad to be alive
in someone else’s story, and every time,
when I when I tugged long enough on its lines,
I could not help but notice
how each story was my story, too.