Recycled

About the Author

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.