I meant to write something about the January VCFA residency--sun on snow, and a rich delight of words and ideas and community. I meant to write about the opening of Tea With Chachaji.
Instead I'm writing about my father, who's ill and in intensive care and I'm dropping everything to fly to India to be with him as soon as I can.
At the residency Kathi Appelt spoke about writing memoir. It's not something I'd ever considered and yet I walked away wondering if that might be a kind of writing I could embrace, or if it would welcome me. I suppose this is a start.
Qwerty, I clattered
on my father's
old Remington Rand.
Yuiop, the keys sang, and zxcvb
I was five in my universe
dancing to keystrokes.
To my friends and to my writing family, thank you for keeping me and my parents in your thoughts at this time. If I can, when I can, I'll post more here. Perhaps, as Kathi says, six words at a time.