My loveship with writing began so long ago I barely remember it, but if I follow the first strand of memory it brings me to the old cedar swing that rested like a large ship on the lawn just outside the back door of my grandparent’s house. It shows me, from above, two heads bent in concentration: my mother’s black hair and mine, a soft reddish brown. She is showing me the letters. Teaching me how to write, one loop and curve at a time. I sink into my child’s body to feel the rough, splintering wood beneath my bare summer legs, the palms of one hand gripping the edge of the swing, as if I know to hold on tight: this is the beginning of a journey with words, and the waters of time may not always be smooth. 

From my first feather pen, hand-made, I dipped into memory and imagination, creating marks on the page that became stories and poems. My imagination soared! Writing was a place—an actual place—I could go, whenever I wanted. The blank page felt like an empty white sand beach I could lie naked on, stretch out on, take up as much space as I wanted. Even now, a single mom with at times too many responsibilities, writing holds space for me. Each morning with my cup of coffee, I look out my window and observe the birds, the squirrels, the deer, even myself. I reflect, contemplate, and write. This tiny space carved out for me is essential to my humanness.