A few years ago I opened an old Best American Short Stories volume that I'd found in a little free library and read my first Lori Ostlund short story. I loved it, so much so that I had the urge, as I sometimes do, to send her a note and tell her what I thought of it.

I like sending fan mail to writers I admire, though I know enough not to expect a response. Mostly people don't reply, and those who do tend to be appreciative but reserved--understandably, they don't want to get sucked into conversation with a potential weirdo. But Lori had none of that reserve. Not only did she write back instantly, but she immediately bought one of my books and read it with her wife, the novelist Anne Raeff, who in turn reached out to me to talk about the poems in the collection that had mattered to her.

So when I learned that the two would be in Portland during Lori's book tour, I of course made plans to go to the reading. What I didn't expect was an invitation to dinner the night before so that we could get to know each other in person. What I didn't expect was a book signed to "One of My Favorite Poets."

This country is such a shithole right now. Maybe that's why these little lights gleam so brightly in my thoughts. What generosity, to extend a hand . . . to invite a stranger to be a friend.