I sat at the table in the little house next to the creek that was also just beginning to thaw and wrote.
Pye Dives for the Oarlock
Getting Baptized
What I Left Behind
Running
Fishing With Mama
They made their way from memory to story and then I stopped.
I pushed aside Life Story and went kayaking on the creek now completely thawed and filled with spot and sailboats fishing boats and swans and just a few jellyfish. When I started again I wrote in a tiny room
I could hardly breathe in that room.
But I wasn’t there to breathe I was there to write.
Back To Embudo
Stephen Moves Into His Studio And I Get Drunk
Mama Dies
The Festival
I added story like a child adding ornaments to an already full tree.
Which was my favorite?
Where did it belong?
“I remember when I collected this one.”
“I don’t care for that one any more but I cannot discard it yet.”
Some had poetry.
Some had pictures.
Some even had recipes.
Quince Preserves.
NC Bar-b-queue.
Collards.
It was a feast.
I fed bits of Life Story to friends then to strangers who swallowed it whole and said “May we have some more, please?”
I gave it to them and went back to make more Life Story.
When it was finished I sent Life Story on a journey with only a flimsy letter to keep it company.
I was disappointed when Life Story came home with an even shorter rejection letter.
