Hannah Ost

I: the inhalation, Monday 24 May 2021

This is not my writing room. Instead, I may only observe behind thick rope that controls my path through a museum of what once was one: someone’s writing room. My eyes are caught, not on the hooks that hang old coats by the door, not by the net that hides a broken fireplace. They catch instead on a photo. In monochrome, a woman stands, all coat and composure. My eyes travel decades to meet hers and I feel a shift in my surroundings, like waves fleeing the shore. I inhale musty, secondhand books and sawdust.

II: the exhalation, Saturday 24 May 1941

I exhale, and a dried rose petal falls from the potpourri dish, onto my infinitely unfinished manuscript. Another joins it, as I swing my overcoat from my shoulders and hang it upon its hook. Solitude is such beauty. How peaceful it is to have a room of one’s own, solely for paper, ink, and thought-provoking artifacts. Books bound with black strings and wrapped in loose jackets, sheltered from the wind between the bricks. I am less lucky and so resolve to light the fire when the boys return with wood.

Now, to writing. Inspiration left me when [name retracted] did and it is with regret that now I state that my manuscript is too light in my hands, much too light. I fear it will never feel as heavy as the heart that writes it.

She catches me; she in the photograph, presiding over my writing hand. My eyes meet hers and I feel a shift within me, like waves enveloping a desperate shore. I am ashamed to say it is this which causes me to stand and walk back the way I came without writing a word. To poorly quote Sappho, someone will remember this moment, somehow, someone in another time will remember this.

III: the inhalation, date unknown

I inhale deeply, and close the door.