Part Of The Creative Process

There Was Our Father, The Heart We Knew Held All Of Us. Held Us Heavily And Desperately, The Doors Of His Heart Opening And Closing With The Rapidity Of Stops On An Instrument, The Quiet Felt Closures, The Ghostly Fingering, Practice And Practice And Then, Incredibly, Sound And Melody And Warmth.

People Grow Up By Living.

It Was Buckley, As My Father And Sister Joined The Group And Listened To Grandma Lynn’s Countless Toasts, Who Saw Me. He Saw Me Standing Under The Rustic Colonial Clock And Stared. He Was Drinking Champagne. There Were Strings Coming Out From All Around Me, Reaching Out, Waving In The Air. Someone Passed Him A Brownie. He Held It In His Hand But Did Not Eat. He Saw My Shape And Face, Which Had Not Changed-the Hair Still Parted Down The Middle, The Chest Still Flat And Hips Undeveloped-and Wanted To Call Out My Name. It Was Only A Moment, And Then I Was Gone.

Each Time I Told My Story, I Lost A Bit, The Smallest Drop Of Pain. It Was That Day That I Knew I Wanted To Tell The Story Of My Family. Because Horror On Earth Is Real And It Is Every Day. It Is Like A Flower Or Like The Sun; It Cannot Be Contained.

I Knew Something As I Watched: Almost Everyone Was Saying Goodbye To Me. I Was Becoming One Of The Many Little-girl-losts. They Would Go Back To Their Homes And Put Me To Rest, A Letter From The Past Never To Be Reopened Or Reread. And I Could Say Goodbye To Them, Wish Them Well, Bless Them Somehow For Their Good Thoughts. A Handshake In The Street, A Dropped Item Picked Up And Retrieved And Handed Back, Or A Friendly Wave From The Distant Window, A Nod, A Smile, A Moment When The Eyes Lock Over The Antics Of A Child.