No this isn’t a poem. I was thinking about how I wish my father could read my work now. Both to teach and criticize.
When I was 11, I wrote a book, with illustrations and all. I got a small bunch of plain paper, folded it, stapled it together and started to write stories. I had my mother buy me coloured pencils and I did my own illustrations.
When I was done with it, I sort of forgot all about it. I never even wondered what happened to it till I once again came across it. I was thirteen looking for something to read in my father’s stuff when I found it among his books.
Clearly he had read it. I don’t even remember what was in it but at thirteen I thought it was all so cringe worthy. And to think my father had read it, I was mortified.
So I stole it back and burnt it.
I didn’t know that six years from then he would be dead. I didn’t know that I wouldn’t ever show him anything I wrote.
I’m so glad he read it, and kept it.