Our parents were young, but never once did they hint they would have wanted it any other way. And we always knew we were loved, even if no one said the words out loud. Which we didn’t. Despite that, I grew up with an intuitive mistrust of my parents that seemed always to exist. I suppose I felt as safe and looked after as most other kids in the 1980s, but there were times I wondered if they had any idea what they were doing. It wasn’t until I became a parent myself that I finally understood the truth. Of course they didn’t know what they were doing- none of us do.

On our walk this morning/we saw a man/who looked to be carrying his entire life . . .

Instead of the culminating unit that I usually do at the end of the year, we did a creative writing unit based around students working on self-directed projects at their own pace. Because everyone was exhausted. Physically, intellectually, and especially emotionally. And creative writing turned out to be the right thing at the right time. I began class most days with a mini-lesson on a type of writing, then I’d turn the lights down low, put on some background noise, and let the students get busy. Sometimes they collaborated, but most of their endeavors were solitary, and it was lovely. Everyone was busy. The thing is, this group was as intelligent as they were challenging, so teacher as facilitator worked best for them then and probably works best for them still.

The book I’ve had the longest? Charlotte’s Web.
She saved Wilbur with her words. She asked for nothing in return. Just love for love’s sake.

I’ve carried this book with me — across states, through seasons, into motherhood. And now, a new favorite ending joins it — this one from Heartwood by Amity Gaige.

It begins:
“All emotions start out as love…”

I started writing a book about my middle brother in July of 2020. The idea had been steeping for a while, then a friend was killed in an ATV accident. And one of my favorite people on the planet lost her seemingly healthy middle-aged husband to a heart attack. Finally, a woman I’d known since high school, whom I admired and even loved, also died- all in that month.

At the end of the last school year, I asked my seventh-grade students to write six-word memoirs. I was looking for an activity that would challenge them to capture who they were, at that moment in time, in as few words as possible.

It’s happening again/So many words up there/We pluck them out of the swirling . . .