Magic

The magic comes
in the form of gifts
I don’t know how to accept.

A blue jay clings to my office window,
a remarkable feather lays in my path,
the writing comes so easily.

I take them, apologize,
forget to show gratitude
until it’s probably too late.

Then the silence arrives.
No birds. No words.
I worry the magic is angry.

Right when hope fades,
the magic reappears.
The bird always returns.

Ode to the pen

In the process of writing this memoir, I have dug out a bunch of my old journals and letters. Amid the pages of angst, boredom, and sadness, I found some folded letters tucked in the pages. They were epic love letters from an old flame. I can’t help but feel like part of the reason we were able to express ourselves so deeply in six-page-long treatises on the greatness of our connection was that there was no internet, no e-mail, fewer distractions. We talked of making mix tapes for each other, and looking in the mailbox with great anticipation for the next letter. I am so grateful I loved like that. And I’m lucky that these words still exist on paper, written with an actual pen. Think of all the words of love and hope that are lost on hard drives languishing in piles of e-waste. Write someone a letter today. With a pen, not a keyboard.