I don’t remember the word “love”

being used in my family

when I was a child.

My father gone. 

Not forever gone, but gone to troubleshoot at a faraway mill.

Last week, I paused the quiet memoir pieces I’ve been posting to talk about the death of Alex Pretti at the hand of government agents in my city, Minneapolis. 

It has happened again!  My government has killed another innocent bystander.  ‍

Our father had two passions.

Not his two children.

We are told we become in our age more transparently the person we have always been.

Cinderella was beautiful, they say.

 I grew up as the one true believer in a family of doubters.

I drew the picture with crayon on a sheet of white paper.

Last week, I wrote about the barrage of “fantastic” offers I’ve been receiving, offers that promise to increase the visibility and sales of my books.

I don’t remember how long ago the first one appeared in my email.  Six months ago, maybe? 

How glad I was to have been born a girl!

I was born at home.

My father was a disappointed man.

He’d been “more fun,”

Mother sometimes told us,

before the Depression.

How to remember my mother?

Throaty wail of the mill whistle.

Chuff, toot, slam of trains.

Towering smokestack

They weren’t thorns exactly, but close enough.

The long struggle is over, done, finished.  My firstborn grandson, Connor, has died.

1960

A stifling night in Oklahoma.

It was huge.  Beyond huge, gigantic.  And the noise was even more overwhelming than the size.