When I was growing up, my mother read poetry to me. I remember hearing her read the jazz-infused lyrics of Langston Hughes and paging through her hardcover anthology of E.E. Cummings and staring at the oddly-shaped poems together as we read them aloud. I try to do the same with Alan’s son. Last week he read to me from E.E.: “the trees stand./ The trees,/ suddenly wait against the moon’s face.” Another one of our favorites is Algunas Preguntas de Pablo Neruda, a book of question poems that I brought back from Isla Negra, Neruda’s seaside home. Somehow, regular doses of poetry make life feel richer, more imaginative, and hopeful.