People talk about how reading a book is like going on a journey.
In some ways, that’s just a thing they say.
But when you read something that really speaks,
And especially if it is really about a journey,
That thing they say holds something more.
It is a reality that springs up in front of you and admits itself,
Reveals itself as truer than truth,
Blossoms like a flower of some cheesy cliche,
And presents as a known fact for a science book.
At least that is what I saw when I finished journeying with Cheryl Strayed.
Following her as I had begun to stray,
I managed to find some kind of grounding in her-
Grieving my daughter as she grieved her mother,
She hiking as I read, until we met in conversational intercourse.