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And then the monster ate the princess
The lamp light in the living room of the Santa Monica apartment was low. My grandfather’s memorial proved more a celebration of his life than a mourning of our loss. By now, my Grandmother’s breathing was no longer easy, her eyes were tired, her hands hurting, and she no doubt wished we’d all go away and let her rest.
I sat beside her on the gold-and-velvet monstrosity of a couch and slipped her a note in fourteen-year-old handwriting.
“Dear Grandmother. How are you? Fine, I hope. I am fine. Love, Jennifer.”
“Dear Kid,” she wrote back. “I am fine. How are you? Love, me.”
“Dear Grandmother. I said ‘I am fine’ already. Are you? Love, Kid.”
“I did too! Hush!”
Our notes became sillier and our handwriting worse, and the two of us giggled like schoolgirls or best friends. All the adults were in the kitchen.
It seemed logical to communicate in writing to my silver-haired grandmother while sitting directly beside her. She was the one who started me playing with words.
I dictated my first poem (and fortunately one of my only attempts at poetry) to a family member when I was three, and it was dutifully written down and kept in all its glory. A copy must have been sent to my grandmother because by the time I was…
