I received a package in the mail yesterday. A box from a place where I didn’t think I knew anyone, really.

Inside was a collection of books taken from a man’s bookshelf and sent along to me … on the off chance that I might welcome them and find a place for them in my home. If not, then to pass them along to someone who might.

Auden, Wallace, etc. Einstein made a bed of the box for the night, while I flipped pages.

Strange to be remembered from so long ago. Him, spring cleaning. Me, now, fall remembering. The Greek Festival that was our first date. And other moments. A Christmas phone call from where was he then — Afghanistan? A visit in New Hampshire. A postcard from D.C.

And he remembers me — for my love of books and for my writing.