I’ve been spending time with this man.
This man who tells stories.
Who never gives up or gives in.
Who dispenses wisdom with grace. Gentle with his genius & sharp with his wit.
Who makes me believe that I can do anything, be anything, be everything.
I was sitting on a park bench the other day, brimming with bright & sparkling & scattered thoughts, giddy with premature spring fever. It was that first day of warmth & sunshine that makes me feel like I’m literally falling in love with the whole world. The kind of day that is full of pure possibility. I was sitting on a park bench, trying desperately to find the words to describe the feeling, the oh-my-goodness-thank-you-God-for-this-world-this-life-this-overflowing-gratitude kind of feeling. I sat & scribbled & sketched the usual mumbo-jumbo of imprecise adjectives and vague verbs, my flailing attempt at transcribing image into words, translating feeling into prose. And amid this desperate digging for the perfect phrase, this little line found its way out.
I’m full of poems tonight.
And then it hit me. That’s why I write. Or at least why I like to write. That’s why I love words. These carefully curated collections of words. He writes, and I write. And I write because he writes. Because I used to sit by his typewriter with my 10-yr-old eyes glued to the page and watch his fingers dance across the boxy letters, click by click, as he pounded out the latest edition of a poem. I’d watch as he visited and re-visited these lines he composed, until the perfect rhythm & rhyme found its way onto the page. I’d park myself on the seat next to him with those bright red glasses that covered half of my face, hands tentatively on the table, watching & waiting, until he finally let me write some words of my own. And sometimes instead of writing my own, I’d just type some of his words. I guess I’ve always been more captivated by interpreting the words of others than by creating my own.
I dedicated my first book to him. I was in 6th grade, and we did a unit on poetry. We had to make our own book of poems, and mine was called Lyrical Lines. Not bad for a little 11-year-old, huh? I was way into alliteration back then. (Still am.) I just thought it was the most brilliant idea. To look at what words do, beyond their pure meaning. To think about how they work together, how they look & sound. It opened up a whole new way of thinking for me.
And so, the very first page of this book was a blank, white piece of paper with a tiny red glitter heart—little & fat & slightly asymmetrical—and under it, the words:
to my grandfather, who is a poet himself.
It’s funny how I fancied myself a poet back then. It was as if gathering the pages and laminating a homemade book cover with clear Contact paper was enough. It was enough to make me a real poet. It’s funny how easily I would call myself a poet, an actress, a singer, so many things, and now I run away from those words. Those words that have so many expectations attached to them. The expectation that you’ll actually be good at it, that you’ll reach some standard set by someone outside yourself. Poet. Artist. Lawyer. Writer. Singer. Teacher. I am all of these, but none of these. I’d rather stick to other words. Sister, Daughter, Friend. Student, always.
I’ve always had “write a book” on my list of things to do. Not because I’ve ever felt like I’ve had anything earth-shattering to say. It’s actually the opposite. I love words. I marvel at them. But sometimes I just don’t know what to do with their immense power. (Well, maybe it’s not an inherent power, but the power that we collectively ascribe to them.) Either way, sometimes I get stuck, unsure of how to wield this power. Or maybe it’s because deep down I know that some things—sometimes the things that matter most—can’t be captured in word or song or image. Some things exist only in your mind & in your heart, in the expression on your face & the way you move your mouth. And the minute you try to record them marks the minute they cease to exist in that purest, truest of forms.
Despite this writer’s block of sorts, I’ve always wanted to write a book for the sole purpose of writing a dedication. It’s the same reason why I’ve always wanted to win an Oscar or a Tony or an Emmy. To give that thank you speech and tell my mom how much I love her. To create a labor of love and dedicate it to the ones I love.
I’ve started writing poems and plays and prose about my grandfather. I’ve taken photographs and made films. I’ve created birthday cards and silly/serious little scrapbooks. And I still can’t describe the way I feel when I’m sitting right next to him. So I’ve come to this conclusion: he simply defies description. That feeling I get, that feeling of being right next to him, whether on a hospital bed or his musty old armchair, that feeling pretty much defies all attempts at description.
4 months ago
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