Nests and Hatchlings

Today I’m feeling sombre. This could be the result of walking down our rickety old farmhouse stairs to the basement with my sons last night, in search of my bag of marbles from childhood, but instead, finding a picture of Amanda, a best friend who died young after being struck by a taxi. I am certain that my sombreness also has much to do with deciding to try my hand at a poem written specifically for a submission call for literary works dealing with money. Away from the bustle of my household, I quieted my mind to set down some words. Having no agenda, I was interested to see what would emerge; I penned the bones of a feral poem, and I was reminded that the adoration and pursuit of money can rip family apart, as it had my family, just a few generations before. Editing keeps me poring over this subject matter, which I'm finding makes me a tad heavy-hearted, but I hope that my voice adds to the conversation in an important way (if my piece is selected).

I'm beginning to realize that sadness has been a running theme in my writing for years--even to this day--though at thirty-six I'm somewhat of a happier person. A decade and a half ago I was in a band, and one evening during practice, one of my bandmates asked me when I was going to start writing happier songs. I said, "Probably not anytime soon." There are salt stains in my guitar from where my tears have fallen, and it adds character to the wood. I don't know if it's how I'm wired, or the fact that life's been meatier in the sadness department, but the good thing is, nothing has to go to waste.

From where I sit in sunshine on the bottom back porch step--simultaneously writing this post, and observing evidence that our chair cushion is being incrementally picked apart by a critter and converted into a nest somewhere--I feel compelled to draw a metaphor: The best stories that I've read are carefully crafted with the most important bits and pieces from a life or a perspective, whereby something important is hatched in the mind of the reader--a memory, a revelation, a lesson learned, a lesson lost, one scene chosen from thousands that broke someone down quickly, or built someone up slowly.

One day I hope to honour my fiery, freckled friend, and share the important parts of our story--like how we ran a very successful lemonade stand for the sole purpose of making enough money to buy poutine from a man named Stan, who hand-pressed potatoes into French fries for the dish, and always used real cheese curds; like how Amanda was roughed up by the teacher in front of the class, and how Amanda's mother, a sturdy woman who baked delicious lady fingers whenever I went for a sleepover, came to the school to lay down the law. 

That is all for today. I think I need to go cry in the corner, or harvest some rhubarb. I’ll do that latter and sing a song. Salty rhubarb, anyone?

 My friend, Amanda