The Critter goes public

Shortly before the school year ended the kids both had a blizzard of activities. Andy's end of the year party, a Prom (yes, middle school had a prom. Oy!), Katie's RogueNight (poetry group reading night at school), a play she was in, and last but not least, a poetry reading at the local Barnes and Noble.

Katie (AKA the critter, since she was very tiny) read a few of her pieces, along with all the other kids. She stood at the front of the reading area, hands jammed in her pockets, afraid to look up at all the people listening and watching, and read her words. They made me smile, at least the first two. One about her brother tumbling down the porch steps to dance with her in a rainstorm at this gawky stage in his life, the second about her swinging at a local park, and what it feels like for her to "almost fly". They were both sweet.

The third piece she read nailed me to my chair. A poem she wrote about her father. Tiny glimpses of her memories of him from when she was smaller. Bits and pieces about him playing guitar, church hymns that he never seemed to enjoy playing, how he played Norwegian Wood more sadly than she's ever heard it before or since, how she always knew he loved John Lennon more than Jesus. The poem talked about his lack of feeling toward her and her brother, and even more so toward me. She's been far more perceptive than I ever realized, for far more years than I ever realized. When she was done, the reading group began to break up. I sat there like a stone.

A woman approached her, they talked for quite a while, the woman handed her a business card. A few minutes later Critter came running to me, legs tumbling over one another in her excitement. "Mom! Mom! She wants my poem! She wants to use it. Holy Crap, Mom! She wants my words!" She launched herself at me and I hugged her tight, this taller than me, beautifully awkward young woman. I was so proud of her. The woman is a pastor at a local UCC church, and she wanted to use Katie's poem about her father in her sermon and writings for the following week. It's a beginning for my daughter, the budding writer and artist.

It wasn't until much later, when I got home and looked in the bathroom mirror that I realized my face was tear-stained, as was the front of my shirt. I don't even remember crying. I asked her. She said yes. Tears running down your face. I'm sorry I made you cry, Mom. I write what I feel, and he always made me feel that way.

I'm proud of her for finding a voice for her feelings and thoughts. But sometimes, they're so damned hard to hear.