The teacher told us we

were made of atoms.

I used to worry about birds

as I watched them

trundling through the blue.

Seventh grade,

and I, the new girl,

awkward,

out of place,

excruciatingly shy.

I was seven,

too old for the yellow crib,

but I didn’t care.

When I was very young I wanted to be “a poet.”

It was our last dance recital,

our very last.

She told me,

though I hadn’t asked.

I grew up longing to jump from a plane,

to float to the earth

beneath a

billowing

parachute.

Miss Christian, my first-grade teacher, had a pockmarked face.

A steamy summer afternoon.

We always had a cat when I was a child, and Little One was my favorite.

Maybe his mother sent him.

I never knew. ‍

Miss Simpson taught second grade,

An award for my novel.

My second novel,

my very first award.

I was a sunbeam.

“Do you know how they found Dr. Livingston in the jungle?”

 I’m on the floor,

a board game with a young grandson.

I never believed in the Easter bunny, even when I was very small.

I goofed.  A couple of weeks ago, I spent hours and hours writing a blog to introduce my newest picture book, Our Home, Our Only Home.