I am attending Festival of Words this week. Tomorrow is workshop day. The morning is poetry. The afternoon is passion. I have been instructed to arrive in the morning with a poem to work on in class. I wanted to write a performance piece about my deep loathing of homework. However, the following emerged:
Del was 81 when her grown daughter of five died.
Sipping tea, Del told me that people don’t bring casseroles to a divorce.
Del was wise. She told me when I had the world figured out I could buy a pair of red shoes.
My flats were red with a band of pink across the toe. They fit the width of my feet.
Del died years ago, long before I was ready for my shoes.
She never told me about strokes.