I pulled the book of poetry off the shelf, part of a search for just the right word to speak where I was not speaking well, not well at all. I liked the poems – fresh, creative, insightful – and had borrowed from this well before.
Just as the cover fell open my eyes fell on an inscription, one etched with ink on yellow page from more than twenty years ago. To me from her. Written in longhand, with crafted handwriting, the kind that is learned, practiced, made more than readable, made graceful, unlike my scrawl.
My fingertips touched her name. She was old when I was young, younger than now. The book was a gift, the poems of one of her friends. She knew I would like them. I remember the time she told me that this writer, this wordsmith, reminded her of me, something I didn’t see at the time, but do now.
She had been married to one of my kind, that strange, archaic, quaint vocation of minister, pastor, priest, shaman, metallurgist. The least she could do is give the younger ones a fighting chance, she thought. She thought right. We liked it that she loved on us. If she could of she would have passed out peanut butter sandwiches and apples on the way to our work.
And now, these many years later, I cannot locate a single poem that assists me in this task at hand. In fact, I cannot even remember the poet’s name. But I do highlight her inky name with the fleshy ends of my fingers. And that, now that she is long gone, is all the inspiration I need.
vitalwholeness 