Monday morning, nine a.m., the ring of the bell comes and the then there is the stomp, stomp of boots across the front porch.
I know before I open the door, before I squint against the morning sun that shines on bare branched trees, and before I wave at the UPS man for the delivery that this is it. Found is finally here!
I snap the envelope up from it's place under the front mat and rip the bubble package open.
There is no moment like this moment, when the first copy of a book arrives in the mail--in hard cover--it is as sweet as a first kiss. Truly. And I am lucky, I've have four of these "first time" arrivals. Blackbird, Still Waters, Show Me the Way and now Found.
Closing the door, I wander back into my quiet house. No one is here, just me. Walls, ceiling, windows and floor are witnesses. Spencer is gone to school, Jo too and it's just me. Isn't that the way it should be? Aren't some "firsts" best savored alone?
I ease to the edge of the sofa, the morning sun spilled over the rug and move my hand over the glossy cover. Found. Found. Found.
As I open the cover, that crack of the spine calls out "new book" and the smell of paper rises. Fresh clean paper. The pages are a surprising and unexpected shade of beige. I love, no truly adore the styling that has been applied to each chapter beginning which is a slice of art from the cover and looks like a bit of shredded paper. In the manuscript form, I thought I was going to hate the design for each chapter opening but now that it is here, in book form, I LOVE IT. What a joy to say so.
I read the first chapter, as if it is brand new and I don't know the words by heart....
I. When I Was Born I was given the perfect name, although it would take the better part of forty-six years to puzzle this perfection out...

There is something so fresh about the words on the page, almost dewy. I begin to doubt I was the person who labored over them and worked so very hard in order to make each one carry the exact weight needed to hold the entire story in balance. It's surreal. What once seemed so hard--the writing process that lasted nearly two years--seems like a long ago dream, as if the hard work never was.
If I could, if I had the time, I would curl up in the sun and read all day long. But look at the clock. I have a class to teach at ten a.m. and six would-be memoirists have pages of their own to talk about.
This moment, my slice of now, slides closed and it's time to get off the sofa and enter the day.

Before I leave the house, I design a little slip of paper that reads "1,000,000 copies sold" and then, with tiny bits of tape, afix the paper in place on the cover. Every accomplishment began with a goal and so, there mine is. May one million copies of this book sell in hardcover!
I tuck Found into my purse, like a secret. I know I will reach out to touch it, just to confirm that it is there, again and again throughout the day. I will pull it out for Spencer and he will do a little dance. I'll show it to my friend Anne and she'll grab it, demand her own copy and begin to read as if I am not there. And I'll even show my ex, Steve, and he'll get all sheepish and offer his own tip of the head that means "congratulations!"
The world is vast, we are all so busy in our lives and our own concerns and in the scheme of things--war, poverty, economic mayhem and all manner of human struggle--this book means nothing. But to me, it is a miracle. I have gone from an idea about a story I wanted to tell to published book--yet again.