I’ve been wrestling with writing. Many days I’ve composed thoughts only to allow something to get in the way of it arriving on a page. Day after day, I fill moments where writing could have been. It may have been with a book or a friend. But as time goes by, so do we. Writing represents who we are, how we remember, and how we are remembered. I felt this intensely when I cleaned out my parents’ home.
With the closing of their home, I pulled their notebooks and letters, their lived lives into mine. Their writing holds who they were; of the times they lived in and through. And as lived, they wrote.
Boxes and notebooks. Writing done with manual typewriters. Letters penned by my grandparents who learned English as their second language. Letters sent home from war fronts, written on fragile airmail paper. Boxes of letters saved just as valuable as the yellowing wedding dresses and baby clothes. Words mattered.
Now their writing sits in boxes alongside the notebooks, poems, letters, and other musings of my children; the detritus of who they were at five, six, seven, eight, nine, and ten. And I sit in between. Examing how privileged my people were and are to be literate.
How lucky I am to have the opportunity to write and to be able to teach writing. What a crucial way to be human.