Monday, November 1, 2010

strong of heart

"we read your poem" she tells me
a couple of years ago at mid-season.
I am shocked that it still exists somewhere.
"Really?" I beam "I can't believe you still have it."
"Well, it meant so much to us."
They smile and continue to tell me how other young girls asked,
"Who wrote that?"
It is perhaps the best I have felt in a long time and on my subway ride home I wonder
why I am not a teacher?
Is it because my Dad once told me it would be the most tragic story ever?
Me trading in writing to become a teacher.
Or is it because people tell me I would be good at it and so I'm afraid.
What will that mean for my writing?
Perhaps one is complimented by the other.
My writing a poem never meant so much as it did tonight.

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