with thanks to fellow Slicer-poet Denise Krebs, who, upon realizing my Slice of Life Story Challenge posts have followed an abecedarian pattern, asked: “Will you do a post about the titles? Perhaps make an abecederian poem using the titles?”
I hadn’t thought of that. Is it possible? Would it even be worth reading?
As I have come to the end of the alphabet with five more posts to write and no plan… why not?
Auspices are favorable for my
barefoot baby ballerina on her toes, at present so like
crows, the absolute embodiment of Thought and Memory. It shows, in throes of
doggerel she tries to recite from her baby books, before she even knows words.
Eavesdropping at nap time, I hear her singing her own invented lullabies.
Focus on saving details of her story, I tell myself. Like the way she calls “Good boy” to the
graze academy of cows pastured behind the manse, and how proud she is of
herself in her little pink coat that shall NOT be removed, nay, all the livelong day.
I remember these from my own early story, memories flitting like tiny gray-cloaked
juncos in ancient winter grass:
koala life lessons from a book my grandmother read to me, in verse;
love notes in the cadence of her voice, ethereal rhythms falling on me like gentle
March snow. There was a book of birds tending their
nestlings as lovingly as Grandma tended me, slathering me in an
ode to menthol (Vick’s VapoRub) when I couldn’t breathe. I am well-wrapped in legacy.
Pursuing knowledge came early: Why is Granddaddy’s middle name St. Patrick?
Quotable Patrick, aka Granddaddy, with a sigh: I got no ideer. And he changed it—!
Remember these days, I say. Write now; who knows what the future holds? A long
sleep experiment poem unfolds. And so each day I am about
taking stock: my pile of good things grows to wealth untold. I play with words like
unfare while my mind time-travels to and fro, a
vagabond in search of a keeping-place, forever digging under the
wall on the writing. Oh, my baby ballerina and big sister nurture scientist/Jeopardy
X-ray expert/backseat prophet, someday you’ll each know how Franna prayed for
your one wild and precious life, filled to running over with awe and
zest—the whole A to Z gamut of my existence.
❤ My granddaughters ❤
with thanks to Two Writing Teachers for the monthlong Slice of Life Story Challenge
and several fellow Slicers who made requests for particular posts along the way
— now: What to write tomorrow?
Ah, but story is in the making every precious moment that we live.