I tried to think of something to write. A poem and a great one, which provokes
tears, like he read to me yesterday in my car (for her, not that I minded). But
the words dont come as easily as they did when I was younger. Mind, those
words weren't good ones. They were the type that came out of me in such
magnificent forms but that inspire only embarrassment when reread with cautious
curiosity. Awkward rhyming schemes and forced wordiness cause winces and
sarcastic questions as to possible mental instability when read.
Beneath the questions are still the words, subtle references to
a disturbed optimist trying to make sense of the contradictions in her world
of pretend happiness, misanthropy, and unsure hope. They weren't happy words,
but they were mine, and I loved them with the maternal patience I would give to
a child born of - and lovingly edited by - my own thoughts.
The children grew in a time of self-consciousn