She was the first one
to hand me paper
folded neatly and stapled
into a tiny book shape
thrust my way
tidy tiny blue ink
and told me to go ahead
I raised my finger to the sky and said
She has always called me Matilda
don't matter none
that my name is Amy
I cannot write Granny.
I can't even read yet.
She smoothed her silver curls and pressed her cotton dress down her front
Just write in your mind
and so it goes
and somewhere in the old relic of the rickety house on the hill
the one she had to leave
somewhere there are all of these tiny books
the education of a writer named Matilda
I would speak out loud
little precocious daughter
of a very quiet man
I shouted and stamped my feet
walked roads in the nubby brown carpets of my childhood
and told tales that no one in the family could believe.
How does she come up with this?
They would laugh.
Mouths open wide
I would cry.
I would write stories about things that were not possibly true.
No dear, we did not have a Christmas day party with a large African Amercian family
playing“Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots,” and eating candy taffy
We did not find that boy on the milk carton
Your teacher did not hold up the bank in town
Your uncle is not the builder of all the bridges with 3 golden teeth
You have never even been in love little girl
How do you come up with all of these things?
gran gave me the power to write inside of my mind
make things come true
like a mixed up magic wand between my eyes
and right now I am writing through to her
to her mind
as she is in a hospital bed
sick with the affliction of so many trips around the blazing sun
so old that she is like a God
like a myth
her thin white hair like whispers
I am writing to her in my mind
simple declarative sentences of love and gratitude
I have always known her
and I think she may have invented me