Even before our hands were forced and we collectively began to turn inward over this past month, I had started looking through writing I’ve done over the years. It’s everywhere: journals, school assignments, calendars, unsent letters, letters sent and saved by family members that were returned to me, marginalia and scraps of paper tucked in books. When my kids were little, we had a three-ring notebook called Poetry in which we stored pieces written by others that moved us along with our own.
It dawned on me that I could start writing again, here. It will be what it will be.
Bird Blind, Blakely Harbor, 2020