Special Day
When I started graduate school and learned I had to take two semesters of poetry—and pay for the courses—I was upset. I didn’t want to learn poetry, never liked it, thought it was a waste. No one, I reasoned, wants to read a bunch of poems.
Not only was I proven wrong, my thinking showed ignorance and made me realize I, indeed, needed to go to graduate school to change my pre-conceived thoughts about writing. The classes in poetry, mainly due to the awesome professors I had, proved the most helpful in my creative writing education.
Today I love poetry.
Poetry makes me look at the world differently. I notice things I never noticed before: the way two people look at each other, how the air smells just after a rain, the feel of thick uncut grass between my toes, the sound of birds calling to each other, honey bees around my ankles, breeze on branches, blossoms that turn to okra overnight.
The main thing I learned in poetry classes is that there are some stories that can only be told in verse. Too many words can distract from the true meaning.
That’s why this month’s blog is a poem. It’s about one of my five granddaughters. They are all special, wonderful, loved. I don’t have a favorite.
However the granddaughter I write about this month, Taylor, who is my only daughter’s only daughter (my son has four daughters) was with me after my husband, David died in 2002.
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This is how she saved my life:
Our Special Day
You called him, “Ed.” He was
your Godfather, step-grandfather.
He died when you were two.
I wanted to
die, too.
I spent countless nights at your house.
Every morning your
bare feet patted down the stairs.
climbed in my bed,
chubby arm under my neck,
snuggled close.
We watched
Barney, Dora, Blue’s Clues, Pooh.
I read you books,
told you stories,
made frilly dresses,
smocked and embroidered,
doll clothes to match.
We sat on the
floor, toys scattered around,
made up stories we told each other
over again.
You said.
with a snaggletooth grin,
“Maddy, it’s a
Special Day
when you’re here,”
You made me want to
live.
I built a house three miles from you
so we could have lots of
Special Days.
Tell old stories over again.
You went to
Pre School, Kindergarten,
First and Second grade.
Each Wednesday
I picked you up
You’d tell your teacher,
“Maddy’s here. It’s our
Special Day.”
First stop,
Kentucky Fried Chicken.
We flew to Hawaii on a
plastic airplane with Barbie and Ken,
new and old stories we told
each other.
We made
melted cheese on Melba toast,
read books.
I taught you to paint,
priceless art now hangs on
my walls.
You said,
crying when your Mama took you home.
“Maddy, I love our
Special Days,”
You gave me
hope.
I remarried
and moved away for
ten years, then
returned to the
house three miles from
you.
You’re seventeen.
College looms.
We visit the
campus,
find your classrooms,
time the drive so you won’t be late.
We stop at
Starbucks for iced latte with foam,
have manicures and pedicures, our favorite restaurant for lunch.
I alter
slacks for your small waist, long legs that
run track.
You say,
teary eyed when I take you home,
“Maddy, this is like our
Special Day again.”
New stories to
create together as you become a
woman.
How can I tell you
who you are to me?
You saved my
life.
