I think I inherited my love of words from my father. He didn't write but read every day of his life from as long as he could remember. He loved that I assigned made up words when I was too young to know a word for something, it reaffirmed to him the power of words and how much I needed them then. He kept a dictionary and thesaurus in the living room, always. Although my father never wrote any stories, he made them up all the time. He encouraged that I wanted to write mine down and to play with words in poetry. He loved reading poetry.
I lost my way in my teens especially with regards to academia. Once my teens were well behind me I discovered nursing and midwifery which saved me and returned me to school.
My parents were pleased, though continued to believe in me as a writer, giving books on writing as gifts and wanting to read any poems I wrote.
When my father was dying, I gave him a poem I had written about him. He shared it with some of the nurses. When he passed away, one of the nurses found it in bed with him and gave it to me. I read it and its sequel at his funeral and another when we scattered his ashes. With the addition of poems written or read out by the grandchildren it was comforting to know that he would have appreciated his funeral.
You read the last poem, but have since passed away
So the tense has to change, but the sentiments stay
You were such a good father to all of us three
The very best father a person could be
I am here as a mother, my husband's here too
And most of you here, I'm related to you
I came here today at the front of your thoughts
As you all gather here for a ritual of sorts
Our Wonderful Dad
I recall at the age of approximately four
That I skipped by your side to the grocery store
in Short Poems
LEST WE FORGET
On barren land on western field
Where only sadness war can yield
They're quite uncomfortable alone
It's in a group they feel at home
It makes us squirm when one slips out
Or feels the need to make one shout