Do you believe in signs? Rainbows, red birds, messages from our loved ones? I’ve been looking for a sign from my father. Some people say I’m trying too hard. On Tuesday, my brother, his wife, and I were touring assisted living facilities for my mother. She has Alzheimer’s and is living in an independent living facility. It’s getting harder to find good caretakers who understand the disease. Kara, my sister-in-law, told me when we pulled into one of the places we were touring, there was a red bird above the parking lot sign that read, “For future residents.” Whether it was a sign or a coincidence, we don’t know. But humans will human, and we believe Dad was letting us know we were doing the right thing.
My students and I have been participating in the annual Write Out sponsored by the National Writing Project and the National Parks Service. Each day this week we’ve watched a video from a park ranger and followed a writing prompt. We made special #WriteOut notebooks following Sheri Edwards’ model found here.
We’ve gone outside to observe the trees and written a script of two trees talking to each other.
We’ve drawn from observing architecture and written about the significance of the building.
We’ve imagined the day in the life of a bird as it interacts with human environments.
Each day there is a new surprise. I hope I can find a way to continue this enthusiasm for writing after the two weeks of Write Out are over.
The Write Out prompt I chose on Thursday included a Rita Dove poem. We discussed the poem and collected words to use later in a poem of our own. Today I am sharing two student poems written after Rita Dove.
Thank you to Two Writing Teachers for creating an amazing community of writers and a safe, welcoming space to write and share.
Covid numbers are rising in our community. It’s invaded my family. We thought we were doing everything right. We are all vaccinated. Apparently, the Delta variant doesn’t care. The good news is no one is very sick. The vaccine is doing its job. Needless to say it’s rocked my world. We thought we knew. Now we know nothing. Keep masking up, my friends. This awful ride isn’t over yet.
Trying to replace some sense of control, I planted a tree. I’ve been nurturing a red buckeye for years. My friend Jim gave me a seedling. I’ve kept it in a pot, then a bigger pot and a bigger one, but now it’s in the ground. I hope the roots are ready.
In January, my friend Marion died from an aggressive cancer. I did not get to say goodbye. Before her death, she and her daughter Robin cleaned out her yarn supply. They gifted me with two large boxes that I placed in a closet upstairs. I wasn’t ready to open them. Robin had asked that we plant a tree to memorialize Marion. When I planted the red buckeye, I thought of Marion and the yarn, so I opened one of the boxes. I found a piece of knitting and wrapped it and placed it in the hole before placing the tree. A simple gesture that I am writing about here, so I can remember.
red buckeye
Marion was a writer. We met in a writing group once a month for at least 18 years. The poem “Last Words” by Rita Dove appeared in The New Yorker shortly after her death. This poem was just what Marion would have said.
Let the end come as the best parts of living have come unsought and undeserved inconvenient
In the Open Write at Ethical ELA, Tracie McCormick prompted us to write a Golden Shovel. Here’s my Golden Shovel for Marion.
Bury the Knitting (Golden Shovel for Marion using the striking line from Rita Dove, “Let the end come as the best parts of living.”
I bury the knitting; Let dirt fall like rain on the stitches of your gentle hands. The end came too soon. I come to this tree today to pray as you did. The roots will ravel around the best parts of a daily life of love and care-filled living.
Margaret Simon lives on the Bayou Teche in New Iberia, Louisiana. She teaches gifted elementary students, writes poetry and children's books. Welcome to a space of peace, poetry, and personal reflection. Walk in kindness.
Reflections on the Teche 