Sometimes I find myself missing literature that I have not and probably will not ever read. I find myself daydreaming of the non-existent day when some kind stranger returns the series of poems that my mother wrote and lent to a friend to read. I sit in the immaterialized section of reality hidden deep within my conscious to see the book of poems—forever lost—that I will never see.
I regard my mother as a brilliant writer able to make points, sway opinions, and write beautiful poetry and prose. She can spin stories with a pen out of thin air, but you can rarely capture her in the act. My mother said her love of writing poems died the day the book of poetry she wrote was lost under the guardianship of a friend who left them on an airplane. She would tell me that she had documented her entire life, up until that point, in prose. Read the rest of this page »