Posts Tagged: on writing
The sound is like a low growl. You mightn’t hear it but even when I look at peace, I’m making it. Then I itch and scrape. Is my stomach empty? Do I need a walk? A nap? A blanket? Kibble?
Yesterday I wrote a letter of thank you to my old English Lit teacher, Mrs McGarvey. Twenty years too late, maybe. She’s retired now, swims a lot, still living locally. You see I was a rebel at 18––or at least