My Life’s Work

When I was very young

Photo by Ines Iachelini on Unsplash‍ ‍

I wanted to be “a poet.”

Why?

Not because I liked poetry better than stories—

stories were always my greatest love—

but because stories are   l   o   n   g

and poems are short.

I had an itch to write—

at least to see my words come to life on a page—

but the labor of pencil applied to paper defeated me.

Learning to type was like being given wings.

From the moment I touched a keyboard,

I knew exactly what I wanted to be …

a writer,

and what I wanted to write …

stories.

I didn’t begin then, though.

The stories

that lived in my head

went on and on,

world

without

end.

Even with a typewriter at my command,

I didn’t know how to capture them.

In college,

I took my first and only class in writing fiction.

We weren’t taught how to write stories,

only given permission to write them …

and for our homework, no less!

Our stories, of course,

were about

and for

adults.

The only worthy topic.

The only worthy audience.

One afternoon, though,

I put everything aside,

spun a sheet of paper

into my typewriter,

and let the words come.

A moment emerged,

two or three sentences …

my three-year-old self

standing in the backyard,

barefoot on the sunny sidewalk,

then stepping off into

the cool relief

of the grass.

Just that. 

Nothing more.

I showed the paragraph to no one.

Why would I?

But I never forgot the way

the words flowed

onto the page,

the way

they sang

in my heart.

It was then I knew,

without knowing I knew,

exactly what my life’s work

would

be.