Within the poems I wrote things like — “as I go through life…” — I was eleven years old.
I found a journal that my friend Cindy gave to me for my birthday. It is filled with my poems — words that I was confident enough to feel and to write, in ink. I guess I knew right from the start that they would save me. These words. There is a Chinese proverb, “I hear and I forget; I see and I remember; I write and I understand.” I suppose that’s all I’ve ever wanted – this understanding.
I need some of that understanding, every day. I suppose we all do. So I continue to write. And I don’t mean that it all ends up making perfect sense. When does that ever happen? But the understanding of a heart, a heart that sees, smiles with lips curled inside, nodding in the agreement that “you are going to be ok,” –calming to this beat of understanding.
She had the assuredness to write on the inside cover, in red ink, “friends always, Cindy.” She was right. We still are. Always will be.
Knowing my mother for those first 11 years, I wrote:
“She’s like the sun,
going in and out,
waiting for someone to notice her.
I’m so glad that I did.”
I type the words. They are all still true. And my heart nods in agreement — We’re all going to be ok.