And so I write.

Authors Note: This is simply an essay about me. It was in answer to my grandson's question: "Why didn't you write before?"

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And so I write, having read all of the old greats of my time. Author’s- who when I was young- managed to sneak words into the mind of a small red headed boy. A boy who would find almost no use for those words for decades upon decades of a life spent drifting on the river of life. Only occasionally tempted to visit the shore, set up a small camp, gather experiences like firewood…filled with the kindle of memories.

There were times, oh so many, when Time decided a small boy had no need of days, weeks, or months. His job in life, not yet assigned, nor even necessary. He had no storehouse of what he should do, be, or become locked away in the vault of early childhood. Painting his childhood would have to be done my a Master Expressionistic painter. A mural. A mural of muted, but somewhat bright colors. Losing its focus the more you tried to narrow the view. Little did that small boy realize that he was experiencing the patina of old age framing his Life.

A book. Some Army men. Maybe cereal or a cup of tea. Those things would have to feature in the mural: forming some sort of picture, glimpse, hint... at the lowered focus of negative prints left behind. It isn’t clear what imprint was left from those formative years. Long walks remembered, as cracked sidewalks stubbornly stuffed with small green grass that knew no limitations, occasionally gave way to inner city life with the warm yellow glow of a dandelion.

Later, that same honey yellow glow under his chin would convince him a girl (girls) loved him. What girl (girls) well that remained as yet another crack in a steamy urban sidewalk, as the small boy had only his own chin to check with. What was clear was he had love in him…with no where to go.

Most times, that small boy was alone…but never drank much from the darker lonely parts of the river of life. Happy - for him- was not something that came through the door of scrutiny first. It was dwelling inside waiting only to find some way to be kind, necessary, or needed, to fling open the screens, scrambling out to play in the dirt or gravel scattered by the side of childhood homes.

He lived in a house stuffed with children. He had connections to them all, but managed, somehow, to stand on the hill of being not connected. Even inside, he was outside most of the time. Like the words of most Poets, his words didn’t fit to make him fit in.

Having dragged his world with him for more than seven decades, at the end, those words decided to be free. As a small boy he did not understand some words, now he fails to see how anyone cannot understand the power of words. The wrong words at the wrong time, to the wrong person, in the wrong place, have led him to fully understand what went wrong.

One word says what went right. Love.

And so…I write.