Every year around the date of October 20th, the National Writing Project announces the Day on Writing along with the prompt, “Why I Write.” I avoid this question, mostly because it intimidates me. Who am I to say I am a writer? If I make that claim, will I be magically transported to the land of authors? Do I belong? Will I meet the standard? I’d rather stay in the closet. It’s easier to claim to be a teacher, a profession that has degrees behind it, credibility, and many years of service.
The problem is I want to write. I want to share my words with you. I want to connect with you through writing. The value in that connection is gold.
In my email inbox, I receive endless blogs and poems to read. I hesitate to delete them, so they build up, and the whole thing becomes unmanageable. However, I never know what may inspire me to write. One reliable set of prompts for me are Ethical ELA’s monthly Open Write. Each month we write together for 5 days. The prompts are written by people like me who juggle teaching and writing every day.
This last week Carolina Lopez drew inspiration from Richard Blanco’s poem “Since Unfinished,” asking us to steal his first line and write. “I’ve been writing this since…”
When we get right down to it, writing makes us ultimately vulnerable. If we are true to ourselves, we put our feelings all out there. This poem structure led me to more memories of my father.
Since You’ve Been Gone
I’ve been writing this since
I learned to walk
holding onto your pointer finger
since driving the circular block
hearing you warn “turn signal”
“stop sign”
“slow down.”I’ve been writing this since “slow down”
meant thinking, means remembering,
meant crying when I reach for the phone
to call you with the news.I’ve been writing this since
you pointed to the clock
(after your stroke) to remind us
to get Mom back for lunch.I’ve been writing this since
Margaret Simon, draft
I held your dying hand
your pointer finger blue and bruised
no longer pointing me
in the right direction.
Reflections on the Teche 
I too have blogs and posts that pile up…and my inbox is always cluttered with things I mean to get to. I was looking for this post yesterday…wondering what on earth is Margaret up to that her PF isn’t where I can find it? And then, this beautiful, beautiful poem built on memories of your Dad. Beautiful things take time…and this is beautiful. The pointer finger from the beginning and the end. My goodness, chokes me up with the understanding of it.
Linda, it’s nice knowing that I have readers like you waiting for my posts. I wrote this yesterday and got busy and forgot to post it. I set a reminder this morning so I wouldn’t forget. Thanks for waiting for it and supporting me with your gentle love.
You. Are. A. Writer. in every sense of the word, Margaret. Memories of your Dad may have pointed you down the path to crafting this poem, but the emotional resonance of it comes from your perfectly chosen words. Thank you for sharing your heart.
Thank you for sharing such a deep part of your heart, Margaret. I love how writing prompts open us up to possibility, and your echo of the prompt throughout the poem kept us connected to the idea.
Lovely, so poignant, that pointer finger! Who am I to claim to be a writer? I addressed this only yesterday in the followinglong-lined poem, still drafty:
Authority
All the great ones do it–even Mary Oliver–yes, even she,
in between the speaking of the hummingbirds and hermit
crabs who still have no authority in the world of humans; even the charismatic megafauna are uninvited to the microphone—
they all say “I”. Meanwhile, each time I begin with “I,” I cringe
at my own presumption. Who granted me the authority to speak?
Somewhere along the line I’ve lost my license, maybe when
overzealous bartenders started carding me and I began to
question the drive I arrived with, the naive confidence of
someone who still speaks to rocks and expects an answer.
Still, over and over I move to reclaim my time, to tell you
about something tiny requiring many details and expect you
to listen-–the way the wings of the unlovely turkey vulture
looked so much wider, more majestic from back there than from
here underneath, how the the teacher pretended that fairies were
the opposite of bad guys. I begin with “I” to place you here with me
in the humble uniform of authority, wearing nothing but our skin
and a megaphone. I ask you to take off your helmet, your goggles, your
seatbelt, your sunscreen, take off your bullet-proof vest, your personal
flotation device, and bounce lightly here with me on the balls of our bare
feet like we were butterflies who miraculously taste with our tarsi.
In other words it’s not about me—when I say “I” I mean I want to
give you a gift, to catch you briefly like a lightning bug and screw you
gently into the jar of my heart punched with airholes, to hold you up
for a moment so you too can hear how the leaves feel when the sun is
finally going down, so you can memorize the way they shock you, and
then with authority I take my hand, unscrew the lid and let you go.
Oh, my, Heidi, the gift of this poem is so great! I just love the lightning bug in a jar metaphor. Yes, we can do this, especially if we hold each other up to the light and say, See, you said that and it is beautiful!
Your poem tears at one’s heart in a beautiful way, such overflowing love felt between you and your dad, thanks for sharing your poem Margaret!
Margaret, my time never seems to be my own lately so I put the pause button on to read some more poems. Your poem is such a tribute to your father. I know he is always in your heart. I hope he has come to visit you in your night dreams like my mother visits. It is a blessing. BTW, your poem seems intact but if you refine it send it out for us to see.