About eight months ago, my granddaughter, Mara, was quite interested in family history and asked for more details. I said I would write but just couldn’t seem to do it.
Fast forward to two weeks ago and I go to a poetry reading–mostly new writers, talking about their lives, easy to understand and with no rhyming.
At the reception, I ask how they do it. “It just comes,” they say. Hard for me to imagine.
Then one woman suggests I make it like I’m writing a letter to someone. I think of my granddaughter. The next morning I wake up thinking in poetry phrases about my father’s guns. Later in the day it all came out, fully-formed.
My father had three guns. Cold, hard revolvers all.