Today I found my magical pig. She was born in 1992 or thereabouts when I found her on Hudson Street in the Village. I thought I’d lost her, but today I was cleaning out a box that traveled with me from Manhattan to Brooklyn to New Jersey to Illinois—Go West, Old Woman, Go West—and there she was. Dusty but still smiling.
If you look hard, you can see some of her pig’s-feet polish has been rubbed off, but no matter, now I can write the great American novel, or at least continue wording my shabby first draft.
Do you have a talisman like my magical pig?