this hand that writes

excerpt from faces in the crowd by valeria luiselli

in winter there were windstorms. but i used to wear miniskirts because i was young. i wrote letters to my acquaintances telling them about my rambles, describing my legs swathed in gray tights, my body wrapped in a red coat with deep pockets. i wrote letters about the cold wind that caressed those legs, compared the freezing air to the bristle of a badly shaved chin, as if the air and a pair of gray legs walking along streets were literary material. when a person has lived alone for a long time, the only way to confirm that they still exist is to express activities and things in an easily shared syntax: this face, these bones that walk, this mouth, this hand that writes.

now i write at night, when the two children are asleep and it's acceptable to smoke, drink, and let drafts in. before, i used to write all the time, at any hour, because my body belonged to me. my legs were long, strong, and slim. it was right to offer them: to whomever, to writing.