For a second blog post, I suggested to writers that they consider a significant moment in their histories as writers. Where were you? What happened? Who, if anyone, helped you in this moment? What did you learn/realize/otherwise discover?
As an instructor and even more as a parent, I'm often struck by how difficult it is to follow my own advice, or to complete my own homework. That said, here goes.
When I review my "history" as a writer, the moment that snags in my mind most often occurs in Falk School, in Pittsburgh, PA, in the first semester of my third grade year.
Okay, here I will make a confession: I can't remember, honestly, when in the year it took place. Only that my desk didn't face a window, and so the quality of light in the memory is golden, spring-like ... which could be an effect of the florescent lights, or of the corruption, in general, of any memory that is 44 years old.
So. I'm sitting at my desk, which happens to be in the aisle facing a row of carrels. I'm writing an illustrated story about Nancy Tupperware and her magical red shoes. Nancy puts on these shoes and they allow her to fly wherever she wants to fly in the world. She uses them on Christmas eve to fly to ... memory lapse ... England? ... and there she meets with animals in a manger (THE manger? Interesting/rogue religious moment in the agnostic kid's life) who can now, since it's Christmas eve, talk to her. The conversation -- its import and substance -- has been lost, though the "fact" (sorry, couldn't resist the scare quotes OR this pretentious aside) of that conversation, animals to Nancy, remains. Then, to end the story, Nancy flies up to heaven to converse with angels.
(This probably means that I was writing this in November or early December, in anticipation of Christmas.)
I am writing this story in order to share it with my friends. My best friend, Madeline Schwartz, is back now after spending second grade with her family in France. Maybe I'm writing this story in order to capture Madeline's attention, to win her back. As I color in the magnificent vibrance of Nancy's electric red shoes, I'm thinking of Madeline and her deep brown eyes, her wavy dark hair, her delicate olive skin. I want her to like this story. I want her to think it's a wonderful story, a magical tale. I want her to admire me as much as I admire her and the mysterious, fabulous "fact" of her new ability to speak French.
I can't remember if Madeline liked the story -- or if she ever read it. I do remember that after third grade we moved to Louisiana for a year and that marked the end of my friendship with Madeline. When we came back, I don't remember her in my fifth grade class. She took up ballet and I played the piano. She stayed at Falk and my parents shipped me off to the public middle school. We reconnected briefly when we were both in separate colleges, but she said, once, while going somewhere with me and my mother, "Laurie, you have the same stupid sense of humor you had in the first grade." And that I mark as the end of it all. No flying shoes, no talking animals.
Perhaps this tidbit of memory, which still has the power to shame me, survives to remind me that Nancy's magic was reserved just for me. The notion of flying, of speaking to animals and angels, of crossing barriers and expanding connection through conversation, movement, magic -- all of these are achieved through poetry and story. But especially story.
I think what I've learned, looking back on myself, hunched over my desk writing that story, drawing in Nancy and her shoes (and her billowing dress, like a mushroom umbrella in the lined sky, bobbing over the crooked manger below), lovingly laboring over those red shoes, is that I was a lonely child who found a gorgeous and busy life in books. There was nothing I enjoyed as much as losing myself to a fictional world -- fairy tales, the house at Pooh Corner, the wizard of Oz and the oddball hybrid characters (all of them infused with magic). I could forget about my desk in the walkway, my accomplished French speaking friends whose invisibility still lingers in my memory like a careful erasure, my forbidding (step)father, and the palpable feeling of uncertainty and fear that stalked me in my own house.
The story I was living at the time, my reality, was both boring and repressive. I certainly experienced joy, I won't lie. But most of that joy -- if it happened in my "real-life" narrative -- was both temporary and tenuous. The joy I experienced while reading and writing was enormous, and life-giving, and a balm to the solitary child bent over her notebook at the battered desk. It wrapped that child up in a warm sunshiny light, and allowed her to fly to far off lands, the author of her destiny and her destinations.
Friday, February 17, 2017
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Reading and Writing with Anne
Hello again after a long time away.
In my course for the semester, we're reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird, some of us for the first time and some of us for the nth time.
I've always loved the way that I can hear Anne's voice burbling through the pages into my brain. It's as if I'm sitting across from her in a cafe, and she's filling the airspace with her wall-to-wall technicolor humor and anecdote.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be Anne -- I wanted to command that attention from readers, to have that kind of hold over an audience, to fill so much space with my mind (despite my, our, somewhat unassuming bodies). Now I just like reading, or re-reading her, and thinking about the rich and wild tumble of her metaphors as she rushes (like snowmelt) down the mountains of her own creating. Perhaps it's because I'm working on my own practices of mindfulness that I can now sit on the riverbank and simply let the wild water foam past me, instead of dipping my legs in, or feeling the urge to jump in with her and be swept away.
I do admire Anne's ability to let it all hang out -- to speak of herself and what she calls her mental illness with casual (offhand? blase'?) confidence. And I've identified with her immediate need to apologize for that move, to confess her self consciousness. Anne and I seem to want our readers to love us, warts and all, though we are convinced that we are unworthy because of the warts. We want, in other words, our readers to love us when we can't really love ourselves.
But I think I'm getting better at that -- loving myself, or at least being kind to myself -- and maybe that has something to do with the fact that I've stopped writing. Okay, no. I've stopped writing with purpose, or with the purpose of being published, and have accepted the role of teacher/coach instead. And though I have to fend off well-meaning acquaintances at cocktail parties who want me to tell them all about the great book of poetry I'm in the process of creating with lies about my poetry production (it's easier than listening to their well-meaning but aggressive pep talks), I'm beginning to be "fine" with the fact that I'm a teacher first, and a sometimes-writer second.
Maybe that falls under Anne's urgent message to us: write because we want to write, because we need to write, and not for the so-called "fame" or "fortune" that being "a published author" is supposed to bring us.
In my course for the semester, we're reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird, some of us for the first time and some of us for the nth time.
I've always loved the way that I can hear Anne's voice burbling through the pages into my brain. It's as if I'm sitting across from her in a cafe, and she's filling the airspace with her wall-to-wall technicolor humor and anecdote.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be Anne -- I wanted to command that attention from readers, to have that kind of hold over an audience, to fill so much space with my mind (despite my, our, somewhat unassuming bodies). Now I just like reading, or re-reading her, and thinking about the rich and wild tumble of her metaphors as she rushes (like snowmelt) down the mountains of her own creating. Perhaps it's because I'm working on my own practices of mindfulness that I can now sit on the riverbank and simply let the wild water foam past me, instead of dipping my legs in, or feeling the urge to jump in with her and be swept away.
I do admire Anne's ability to let it all hang out -- to speak of herself and what she calls her mental illness with casual (offhand? blase'?) confidence. And I've identified with her immediate need to apologize for that move, to confess her self consciousness. Anne and I seem to want our readers to love us, warts and all, though we are convinced that we are unworthy because of the warts. We want, in other words, our readers to love us when we can't really love ourselves.
But I think I'm getting better at that -- loving myself, or at least being kind to myself -- and maybe that has something to do with the fact that I've stopped writing. Okay, no. I've stopped writing with purpose, or with the purpose of being published, and have accepted the role of teacher/coach instead. And though I have to fend off well-meaning acquaintances at cocktail parties who want me to tell them all about the great book of poetry I'm in the process of creating with lies about my poetry production (it's easier than listening to their well-meaning but aggressive pep talks), I'm beginning to be "fine" with the fact that I'm a teacher first, and a sometimes-writer second.
Maybe that falls under Anne's urgent message to us: write because we want to write, because we need to write, and not for the so-called "fame" or "fortune" that being "a published author" is supposed to bring us.
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Another rainy Tuesday
We're getting to the part of the academic year when some of us are set "free" to learn on our own for a few months -- read, write essays, ponder course design, gaze at our navels, refresh and renew.
As part of my new position, however, that will not include me ... for the first time in forever. I'll be coming in every weekday to take care of business. Usually, I'm not really all that good at summer "breaks." Unstructured time is difficult for me. A certain kind of chewing restlessness sets in around the middle of June and begins to nibble at my brain function. Perhaps this structure and responsibility, this attention to long term projects, this more structured "learning," will be good for me.
I'll get back to you on that after I go through a few months of it. I think the trick will be in keeping track of what I should be accomplishing, setting goals for myself -- concrete, achievable goals -- and coming up with something like a time line. The thing about teaching is that you're regularly and predictably accountable to others. You've got deadlines and expectations and concrete goals (in writing). I should make up a summer syllabus for myself, that is.
Going to do a word box poem today. I'll select 5 words and see where they lead me. The words are:
mail carrier, eyeball, coffee, condo, and lexicographer.
Oh boy.
*
Alter Ego
I'm a half-closed dysfunctional eyeball
floating in anti-matter, a destroyed and
destructive god of the anti-domestic,
a ripped shirt, laddered tights, highball
sucking pierce machine, the lexicographer
of your personal apocalypse, composing
all the terms for disaster known to human
unkindness, the mail carrier come with letters
from the unconscious. Inside this cardboard condo
you call a mind, I nudge awake your incipient
chaos with a shot of scalding espresso, whip you
into several frenzies, until you're knocked into
the ditch like a bundle of bones -- emotional
roadkill. I'm your alter ego, your inner child,
your id, your dark side, your shadow, your
unforgotten Other -- all the parts of you
you thought you'd buried. Surprise!
This is me, now, ringing your bell:
the walking dead, the dirt and fingernails
and fungus and rot you thought
(all those years ago) you'd left behind.
As part of my new position, however, that will not include me ... for the first time in forever. I'll be coming in every weekday to take care of business. Usually, I'm not really all that good at summer "breaks." Unstructured time is difficult for me. A certain kind of chewing restlessness sets in around the middle of June and begins to nibble at my brain function. Perhaps this structure and responsibility, this attention to long term projects, this more structured "learning," will be good for me.
I'll get back to you on that after I go through a few months of it. I think the trick will be in keeping track of what I should be accomplishing, setting goals for myself -- concrete, achievable goals -- and coming up with something like a time line. The thing about teaching is that you're regularly and predictably accountable to others. You've got deadlines and expectations and concrete goals (in writing). I should make up a summer syllabus for myself, that is.
Going to do a word box poem today. I'll select 5 words and see where they lead me. The words are:
mail carrier, eyeball, coffee, condo, and lexicographer.
Oh boy.
*
Alter Ego
I'm a half-closed dysfunctional eyeball
floating in anti-matter, a destroyed and
destructive god of the anti-domestic,
a ripped shirt, laddered tights, highball
sucking pierce machine, the lexicographer
of your personal apocalypse, composing
all the terms for disaster known to human
unkindness, the mail carrier come with letters
from the unconscious. Inside this cardboard condo
you call a mind, I nudge awake your incipient
chaos with a shot of scalding espresso, whip you
into several frenzies, until you're knocked into
the ditch like a bundle of bones -- emotional
roadkill. I'm your alter ego, your inner child,
your id, your dark side, your shadow, your
unforgotten Other -- all the parts of you
you thought you'd buried. Surprise!
This is me, now, ringing your bell:
the walking dead, the dirt and fingernails
and fungus and rot you thought
(all those years ago) you'd left behind.
Tuesday, May 3, 2016
missing the poetry fix
Hello, darlings.
It's now May and I'm going to confess that I miss the ability to center myself every day with a poetry exercise. (Did you know, however, that if you post a poem to your blog you can't submit it to a poetry journal for potential publication? Nope. See, self publication counts. Oh well.)
Yesterday, instead of writing a poem, I did a guided meditation in my office to "rededicate myself to lovingkindness." Oh, snap -- new age strikes. Instead of being loving and kind, however, as the soothing Irish voiced man suggested, I soured by mid-day and by the end of the day, when I arrived into Dave's space, I was the same old rant bag as usual.
I've got about 10 minutes before I have to head into an action packed day. My Google calendar is a solid blob from 10-3:30 or so, with a small break before a dinner gig. All of this celebrating is making my waist thick and the numbers on the scale rise. I couldn't zip my jeans yesterday. Blargh.
Maybe I'll write a poem a week now. How's that sound?
Today's challenge: What does your shadow do while you're sleeping?
*
While I'm Sleeping
My shadow stretches out
to fill me,
leaking
into my fingers and toes,
erasing
my wrinkles,
returning me to a dewy
youth.
It's a heavy liquid
that defies gravity,
lifting me
like dream ether
into strange heights
where flickering images
mix
past and present,
hinting at the future
(black mirrors
hold a world
of bending shadows
that touch me
with chilly
fingertips)
when I will be
all shadow
all
the time.
It's now May and I'm going to confess that I miss the ability to center myself every day with a poetry exercise. (Did you know, however, that if you post a poem to your blog you can't submit it to a poetry journal for potential publication? Nope. See, self publication counts. Oh well.)
Yesterday, instead of writing a poem, I did a guided meditation in my office to "rededicate myself to lovingkindness." Oh, snap -- new age strikes. Instead of being loving and kind, however, as the soothing Irish voiced man suggested, I soured by mid-day and by the end of the day, when I arrived into Dave's space, I was the same old rant bag as usual.
I've got about 10 minutes before I have to head into an action packed day. My Google calendar is a solid blob from 10-3:30 or so, with a small break before a dinner gig. All of this celebrating is making my waist thick and the numbers on the scale rise. I couldn't zip my jeans yesterday. Blargh.
Maybe I'll write a poem a week now. How's that sound?
Today's challenge: What does your shadow do while you're sleeping?
*
While I'm Sleeping
My shadow stretches out
to fill me,
leaking
into my fingers and toes,
erasing
my wrinkles,
returning me to a dewy
youth.
It's a heavy liquid
that defies gravity,
lifting me
like dream ether
into strange heights
where flickering images
mix
past and present,
hinting at the future
(black mirrors
hold a world
of bending shadows
that touch me
with chilly
fingertips)
when I will be
all shadow
all
the time.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
30 means freedom! But freedom from poetry ... is that really a good thing?
This will be my last "poem a day" entry for April. It's sort of bittersweet. On the one hand, I'll be happy to leave this self-imposed challenge aside for a while. On the other hand, writing a poem a day does pique my creativity and my zest for spring. In other words, this "chore" brings on a personal rebirth of sorts. Not sure if I should let that settle down again.
My prompt for the day will be: http://poetryprompts.tumblr.com/post/142634525032/national-poetry-month-prompt (Write a love poem to your hometown.)
*
Love Poem for Pittsburgh
Dear steel city, Burgh of black soot
and rotten air, milltown of ethnic neighborhoods,
Appalachian twang, and borderline Midwest
politesse, thank you for taking me in
when I was three, for introducing me
to Elmer Street and ginkgo trees and
Mr. Rogers (my television friend),
for Liberty Elementary and Falk School,
for EJ across the street with his Big Wheel
(first fiancee) and for The Catman
with his marmalade beast
on a long stalking leash.
Thank you for cracked sidewalks, for
potholes and Negley Hill, for sledding in
Mellon Park on snow days, and for the slush
that froze our jeans as we schlepped home
in a bunch, all the neighborhood kids,
dragging the toboggan. Thank you for
Carnegie Mellon, where I learned
to be a writer and started my journey,
for Shadyside and Squirrel Hill and Oakland,
for Dave and Andy's ice cream, for your
global smorgasbord and greasy spoons,
for three green rivers and fireworks
on the Point, for art festivals
and brick houses and Mom's apartment
on Wightman -- her sanctuary.
I didn't love you in middle school
(in fact I probably hated you). It seemed
you were callous, that you wanted us
to break our adolescent hearts against
each other, and I was happy to leave you
for Mexico, but distance must make
the heart grow fonder, and so I returned
and learned to love you again
as helped me come of age.
Dear Pittsburgh, I wish you all
the best, though we'll never be together
again. Keep Mom safe. Hold my memories
in place. I'll lie, then, and call you
"home," and say I loved you best.
My prompt for the day will be: http://poetryprompts.tumblr.com/post/142634525032/national-poetry-month-prompt (Write a love poem to your hometown.)
*
Love Poem for Pittsburgh
Dear steel city, Burgh of black soot
and rotten air, milltown of ethnic neighborhoods,
Appalachian twang, and borderline Midwest
politesse, thank you for taking me in
when I was three, for introducing me
to Elmer Street and ginkgo trees and
Mr. Rogers (my television friend),
for Liberty Elementary and Falk School,
for EJ across the street with his Big Wheel
(first fiancee) and for The Catman
with his marmalade beast
on a long stalking leash.
Thank you for cracked sidewalks, for
potholes and Negley Hill, for sledding in
Mellon Park on snow days, and for the slush
that froze our jeans as we schlepped home
in a bunch, all the neighborhood kids,
dragging the toboggan. Thank you for
Carnegie Mellon, where I learned
to be a writer and started my journey,
for Shadyside and Squirrel Hill and Oakland,
for Dave and Andy's ice cream, for your
global smorgasbord and greasy spoons,
for three green rivers and fireworks
on the Point, for art festivals
and brick houses and Mom's apartment
on Wightman -- her sanctuary.
I didn't love you in middle school
(in fact I probably hated you). It seemed
you were callous, that you wanted us
to break our adolescent hearts against
each other, and I was happy to leave you
for Mexico, but distance must make
the heart grow fonder, and so I returned
and learned to love you again
as helped me come of age.
Dear Pittsburgh, I wish you all
the best, though we'll never be together
again. Keep Mom safe. Hold my memories
in place. I'll lie, then, and call you
"home," and say I loved you best.
Friday, April 29, 2016
29 is fine
I almost clicked "Publish" before actually writing this blog.
Ugh.
I'm going to do this one today: http://writeaboutcomma.tumblr.com/post/143496644130/write-about-what-youve-outgrown-what-you-can
Gonna make it a list poem.
*
What I've Outgrown
My pants.
Winter.
Board games (though to be honest I never liked them).
Lollipops -- these days, I prefer suckers.
Petty jealousies about so-called "talent" and other peoples' accomplishments. I have my own.
Romance novels.
Pushing the limits by talking about sex and sexuality openly.
Freud (see above).
Lacan (sticks tongue out at Lacan and makes gagging gesture
[not yet outgrown, apparently] re:
Lacanian analysis of literature.
Fear of driving.
Parties, dancing, dance parties, flirting, clubs,
dressing up for dance parties and flirting,
dressing up in general, and, yes,
too-high heels.
Nylons. Definitely nylons.
God, they're nasty little vag traps.
Gunne Sax dresses and little girly girl fashion for grown ass women. Kinder-whore apparel.
The Junior section of any store.
Ballet flats.
Stories about Dad and his boring problems which create my boring problems.
My boring problems.
Whining? Not sure about this one.
"Desire."
Daquiris.
Strawberry ice cream.
Diet Coke?
Backpacks as book bags.
Mini-skirts and plunging necklines.
Attempting to get a suntan. (I've given up impossibility.)
Culottes. Stirrup pants. Shoulder pads. Big hair. (If the 80s come back, I'm already
over them. Don't take a message.)
Maybe Halloween.
Gum drops, cotton candy, bubblegum, taffy, Now & Laters.
Swimming pools.
Bikinis, most certainly.
Girl mags like Glamour and Vogue.
Giving a shit about celebrities. In fact, I've outgrown TV.
Mistaking anxiety for infatuation; misreading loneliness for love; confusing gratitude with attraction.
The "seven year itch."
Perfection.
Random corners in my memory.
Did I mention my pants?
Ugh.
I'm going to do this one today: http://writeaboutcomma.tumblr.com/post/143496644130/write-about-what-youve-outgrown-what-you-can
Gonna make it a list poem.
*
What I've Outgrown
My pants.
Winter.
Board games (though to be honest I never liked them).
Lollipops -- these days, I prefer suckers.
Petty jealousies about so-called "talent" and other peoples' accomplishments. I have my own.
Romance novels.
Pushing the limits by talking about sex and sexuality openly.
Freud (see above).
Lacan (sticks tongue out at Lacan and makes gagging gesture
[not yet outgrown, apparently] re:
Lacanian analysis of literature.
Fear of driving.
Parties, dancing, dance parties, flirting, clubs,
dressing up for dance parties and flirting,
dressing up in general, and, yes,
too-high heels.
Nylons. Definitely nylons.
God, they're nasty little vag traps.
Gunne Sax dresses and little girly girl fashion for grown ass women. Kinder-whore apparel.
The Junior section of any store.
Ballet flats.
Stories about Dad and his boring problems which create my boring problems.
My boring problems.
Whining? Not sure about this one.
"Desire."
Daquiris.
Strawberry ice cream.
Diet Coke?
Backpacks as book bags.
Mini-skirts and plunging necklines.
Attempting to get a suntan. (I've given up impossibility.)
Culottes. Stirrup pants. Shoulder pads. Big hair. (If the 80s come back, I'm already
over them. Don't take a message.)
Maybe Halloween.
Gum drops, cotton candy, bubblegum, taffy, Now & Laters.
Swimming pools.
Bikinis, most certainly.
Girl mags like Glamour and Vogue.
Giving a shit about celebrities. In fact, I've outgrown TV.
Mistaking anxiety for infatuation; misreading loneliness for love; confusing gratitude with attraction.
The "seven year itch."
Perfection.
Random corners in my memory.
Did I mention my pants?
Thursday, April 28, 2016
28 -- Literary Awards tonight! :@
Dearest St Norbert writers and friends -- hope I get to see you come out of your various caves for tonight's celebration of our campus writers. It's always an exciting time for all. And there will be cookies. I can't emphasize enough the cookies.
Bring your friends and family. Hell, bring your enemies and expose them to a little culture.
Today's poem will be short because I'm giving myself a 15 minute time limit.
*
15 Minute Poem
Like toast, it pops out of my mind
lightly brown on top
and perhaps a bit raw
on the bottom,
and I slather butter on it
(maybe a bit of cream cheese),
chew it while sipping
lukewarm coffee
and dinking on my device.
Like my device, it's smeared
with butter fingerprints
and greasy cheek kisses.
A few crumbs cling to its case.
It's seen hard use --
fingered and flung and dumped
in purses and bags.
And it's constantly on vibrate,
which means I never hear it
on the rare occasions
when it happens to ring.
The 15 minute poem rings
when I'm in the shower
or trying to fall asleep
or dreaming about tidal waves
and zombies
or driving madly to work,
switching lanes without the blinkers,
listening to an accidental romance
(fuck these romances! give me murder!)
on the battered device.
The 15 minute poem doesn't answer
when I finally manage
to pick up --
it butt-dialed me
while it was in a museum meeting --
and I get into a major panic
when I call it back
and don't get an answer
or even the voicemail I was expecting,
thinking perhaps the poem's lying hurt
even dead
on the floor of its kitchen,
cat licking
its dull eyes,
so I call my sister and brother,
alert them,
and the fear spreads
dial after dial
until the poem blows up
with missed calls and text messages
and it runs out into the marble hall
in a panic of its own
thinking we might be lying hurt
even dead
Oh, sorry, we tell it.
We didn't mean to go supernova.
It's just that we got worried
we'd have to live without you,
we got a taste
of that terrible truth,
and we remembered
we hadn't checked in with you
for a while,
so we felt guilty and
disconnected
like the children we used to be
and we just wanted
another chance to tell you
how much we love you.
Bring your friends and family. Hell, bring your enemies and expose them to a little culture.
Today's poem will be short because I'm giving myself a 15 minute time limit.
*
15 Minute Poem
Like toast, it pops out of my mind
lightly brown on top
and perhaps a bit raw
on the bottom,
and I slather butter on it
(maybe a bit of cream cheese),
chew it while sipping
lukewarm coffee
and dinking on my device.
Like my device, it's smeared
with butter fingerprints
and greasy cheek kisses.
A few crumbs cling to its case.
It's seen hard use --
fingered and flung and dumped
in purses and bags.
And it's constantly on vibrate,
which means I never hear it
on the rare occasions
when it happens to ring.
The 15 minute poem rings
when I'm in the shower
or trying to fall asleep
or dreaming about tidal waves
and zombies
or driving madly to work,
switching lanes without the blinkers,
listening to an accidental romance
(fuck these romances! give me murder!)
on the battered device.
The 15 minute poem doesn't answer
when I finally manage
to pick up --
it butt-dialed me
while it was in a museum meeting --
and I get into a major panic
when I call it back
and don't get an answer
or even the voicemail I was expecting,
thinking perhaps the poem's lying hurt
even dead
on the floor of its kitchen,
cat licking
its dull eyes,
so I call my sister and brother,
alert them,
and the fear spreads
dial after dial
until the poem blows up
with missed calls and text messages
and it runs out into the marble hall
in a panic of its own
thinking we might be lying hurt
even dead
Oh, sorry, we tell it.
We didn't mean to go supernova.
It's just that we got worried
we'd have to live without you,
we got a taste
of that terrible truth,
and we remembered
we hadn't checked in with you
for a while,
so we felt guilty and
disconnected
like the children we used to be
and we just wanted
another chance to tell you
how much we love you.
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