Poem: Starting Over

 

Starting Over

 

The story idea came so long ago

That it took form in spiral notebooks,

And then on paper rolled into electric typewriters,

Floppy disks that were floppy,

And then hard.

 

Obviously it was never my number one priority.

I had school, and work,

And school again, and work again.

And then I had babies.

 

(I felt guilty that maybe my characters

Got the best names.)

 

Years of diaper bags

And first smiles

And first steps

And first grade

And working my day job long into the night.

 

When I tried to write,

I would fall asleep at my computer.

But somehow, in fits and starts,

The novel marched forward.

 

I learned to write in the cold lobby

During ice skating lessons,

And to fill in plot holes

On the walks I took while the kids were in Hebrew School.

 

Junior prom arrived,

And Girl Scout silver awards,

And the older one went off to college,

And the younger one learned to cook.

And just about then, I finished.

And I published.

And I was done.

 

I miss the skinned knees,

And the bruised hearts,

And the adorable confidences,

And shaping fatal flaws

To be somewhat less than fatal. 

 

I miss the kids, heroes, bffs, and foils

Fighting back,

Telling me this is not how it is supposed to be,

That I don’t know anything about the world

That I birthed them into. 

 

And when my teenagers say with supreme confidence

There will be no grandchildren,

I think, and there will be no sequel,

 

But there will be another story,

In another world.

And I sit down at my keyboard,

And begin to write