After my mom’s funeral, my dad pulled out a box containing
all the treasures she had saved from our time together. My first baby scribbles, school art projects,
homemade Christmas cards, and a bundle of letters I’d written her in my summer
travels. I sat on the floor, cried and
slowly went through the box reading her handwritten notes. Before she started our family, she had been
an English teacher, so poetry was always a part of our life together, and she
had saved my first poem. She gifted me
with the need to put my feelings into poems, and it is through writing I
experience what artists must feel as they experiment with different vanishing
points offering infinite possibilities, and for me a fuller vision of
life.
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