An extra day— Like the painting’s fifth cow, who looks out directly, straight toward you, from inside her black and white spots. An extra day— Accidental, surely: the made calendar stumbling over the real as a drunk trips over a threshold too low to see. An extra day— With a second cup of black coffee. A friendly but businesslike phone call. A mailed-back package. Some extra work, but not too much— just one day’s worth, exactly. An extra day— Not unlike the space between a door and its frame when one room is lit and another is not, and one changes into the other as a woman exchanges a scarf. An extra day— Extraordinarily like any other. And still there is some generosity to it, like a letter re-readable after its writer has died. Excerpted from The Beauty by Jane Hirshfield. Copyright © 2015 by Jane Hirshfield. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. |
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