The Day is Done

Twilight, linocut print by William H. Hays

An older gentleman approached the gallery.

He paused to consider how he might navigate its entry. I swung the door open and said, “How can I help you?” He raised his walker, handing it to me. He reached for the iron railing and pulled himself up the three knurled granite steps. Pausing at the entryway, the man efficiently surveyed the gallery. Spotting a chair beside my desk, he seized it. I placed his walker next to him. He noticed the steam dancing above the coffee I’d just poured.

He said, “I’ll have a cup of tea. Do you have Splenda?”

“I do,” I replied.

We exchanged names and began chatting, his eyes wandering from print to print. His gaze settled on the one that captured a fading afternoon, with the lights of a village twinkling on the far shore of a river. A moment later, he said, “Would you read me a poem?” My surprised look caused him to ask, “You do like poetry, don’t you?”

“I do,” I replied.

He named Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s The Day Is Done. I wondered if Francis thought that maybe I had memorized it? Instead, Google delivered it to me. I zoomed in on the words and turned my laptop toward my new friend so that he could see each stanza as I read. I inhaled deeply and filled my soul with Amanda Gorman.

Each line of verse made its way from the ether to my vocal cords to the space that he and I shared.

As Francis listened, I recalled writing workshops in Brooklyn where a small group of us huddled in a close circle and read aloud, all secretly hoping that our words would change the world.

Breathing life into Longfellow, I felt my voice reverberate inside my head, I sensed the timelessness of the moment, and I experienced the creation of an impression.

When I finished, Francis pointed to Twilight, hanging on the opposite wall.

He said, “I’ll take that one.”