Sasha knows that something is missing - the truth. It must be told before it is too late. She begins to put the words on paper and hopes they will speak after her voice has been silenced by a foe who is stronger than she is.
I sat at the table in the little house next to the creek that was also just beginning to thaw and wrote.
Pye Dives for the Oarlock
Getting Baptized
What I Left Behind
Running
Fishing With Mama
They made their way from memory to story and then I stopped.
I pushed aside Life Story and went kayaking on the creek now completely thawed and filled with spot and sailboats fishing boats and swans and just a few jellyfish. When I started again I wrote in a tiny room
I could hardly breathe in that room.
But I wasn’t there to breathe I was there to write.
Back To Embudo
Stephen Moves Into His Studio And I Get Drunk
Mama Dies
The Festival
I added story like a child adding ornaments to an already full tree.
Which was my favorite?
Where did it belong?
“I remember when I collected this one.”
“I don’t care for that one any more but I cannot discard it yet.”
Some had poetry.
Some had pictures.
Some even had recipes.
Quince Preserves.
NC Bar-b-queue.
Collards.
It was a feast.
I fed bits of Life Story to friends then to strangers who swallowed it whole and said “May we have some more, please?”
I gave it to them and went back to make more Life Story.
When it was finished I sent Life Story on a journey with only a flimsy letter to keep it company.
I was disappointed when Life Story came home with an even shorter rejection letter.