I was ten when he told me
to write what I know.

I told him I didn’t know anything.

He said, “so write it.”

At fifteen I carried the small brown notebook in my purse,
with a black pen; not blue.

I’d take it out, read the white pages,
then put it back unchanged.

He asked, every few days:
“Have you written yet?”

I’d look at him with mounting frustration and say
“I don’t know what to write.”

He’d smile and say, “You will.”



In the waiting room with Mom,
my purse was ten thousand pounds.



At the funeral I tapped the pen on my knee.
Stared at the pages.


Looked at the brown box in front of me,
eyes finally dry.


You're gone,
And I'm here.


So I turned the page.