Sunday, April 08, 2018

Day 8: The Pen

I hold the pen in my hand like you would hold a knife
A blank tablet lays on the seat of the chair I stand at
I hear her across the kitchen, clanging a pot from the cupboard
I stab at the tablet, and draw curlicues of what I think
Are letters, but they are not letters and I am frustrated
So I start to cry and throw the pen at the paper, it glances
Off and skids across through the kitchen doorway to her

"What's wrong?" she says, bending to pick up the pen 
And I run to her, grabbing her legs, still wailing
In my memory my dialogue with my mother is clear
And concise, but I'm sure I was not as eloquent as 
I think I was, but I ask her when I will be able to write.
"When you go to school," she said patting caressing 
My head.  Then the memory fades into blue winter

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