diary / by Edward Mullany


My friend, who is also a writer, and who has been working on a book about saints, with whom, as a subject, she admits she is obsessed, told me yesterday, while we were walking through the park during a letup in the rain, so that sometimes we’d feel, on the back of our necks, when a breeze would lift the branches of a tree we happened to be passing under, the water that had been sliding from the leaves, and that now and then would come down on us, as if in a shower…yes, my friend told me, as we walked in the park like this, talking about her book, and how the writing of it has been going, and whether she thinks it will end in publication, that, like every person she knows who is in any way close to her, she finds herself on the verge of tears each day, though she doesn’t always understand why, and though, as well, she doesn’t always give in to them, if give in is the right word.