I carried a spiral bound notebook everywhere.
I was eleven, everyone told me I could write so I did.
Every day I sat quietly by the desk while my grandmother typed her novel.
Every day I wrote in my notebook.
When she died for the first time words failed.
Nothing I wrote could express the pain I felt.
I wrote word after word.
Everything I wrote was to do her honor, to remember.
Even after filling volumes, the pain never stopped.
After she died for the first time I stopped.
The notebook stayed locked away.
The words came, but I shrugged them off.
We sat together my father, my sister, and I.
He was reading.
“Whose woods are these, I think I know.
His house is in the village though.”
I said I didn’t write any more.
Words didn’t do justice to the feeling I had.
He said it wasn’t something that could be stopped.
The words will come out, they will find their way out.
I said I would just forget them.
I wouldn’t put pen to paper.
It wasn’t worth it.
“These woods are lovely, dark, and deep.”
He made me promise to write.
I promised him I would never stop.
The days tick on and on, the world turns and life continues.
I put pen to paper and I write.
I paint, I build, I cut. I create.
I approach the chasm that is the pain of him being gone.
I know it will be an eternity before I can write about it.
I try to fill the chasm but it stands wide and deep.
But I still remember.
From the day I picked up the notebook to the day I die.
“but I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep.”