Dear Readers,
By the time you are reading this, I will have already moved across the country to New England. But I have not done so yet. Here are some things I might say about my new digs:
It’s so nice having four, distinct seasons.
I love not being in 90-degree weather in fall.
New Braintree.
Moving is a big deal. I avoid it at all costs. But it is a liminal time, a time of doorways and hallways and great big means of transportation.
We have explored notions about thimbles as small shelters, but it occurs to me that they are also portable shelters. It came to me in a flash: putting a thimble on a slug to turn it into a snail, an animal which carries its home on its back. (Of course, I would never actually do this.)
If I could, I would take my old house with me, with its acre of land and funny poles that were fashionable in the 70’s. But it is as immobile as Texas.
What I can take, though, fits in boxes and suitcases and in my pocket. Friends have sent me quite a few thimbles over the years. Maybe I’ll take one and thumb it for the flight. What I know I will take, though, are these poems, these images, these stories. Home is a place you can carry with you.
In my first letter from the editor, I wrote: “It’s dangerous to go alone. Here, take this.” I wrote that for you. Now I’m writing this for me, but you can have it just the same.
Thank you for giving me something I can carry with me. On my back like a backpack, on my back like a thimble on slug.
Best,
Nadia Arioli
