sold
three. Now, at fifty-eight, she was the author of more than a dozen. She was Renee Owen. She was the smiling lady on the back
of the book. She was the lady who had written it, you see? She wasn’t famous but she was read, most definitely. She had done
well. And it didn’t bother her that she was not the best-known children’s writer of the century. That was not important. What
delighted her was the secret cadre of children who carried her stories along with them in their minds, whether they knew it
or not. There were thousands of them.
Whether they knew it or not, they were out there, an entire army, some of them now grown. She helped make their minds and
their imaginations, their rights and their wrongs, every single one. Who were they? Where were they? It didn’t matter, and
she would never know, but they carried along Fiona and Samuel, the sister and brother detectives; they carried along Wesley,
the ape; they carried the prince named Thomas on the quest to find his shield; and they carried along the kittens and the
yubyubs and the evil men who came to tell Annabelle her parents had given her up.
That voice, though—that voice that woke up and whispered in her ear on 9/11—that was the thing. That was what had left her
all the way back then, in 1969. She’d thought it was simply gone forever, that Jonathan’s death was the death of some space
within her own heart, the same space where that voice lived. The evil surprise was that it was back, a reborn child and full-grown
by the time Adam came home and announced his plans to be a marine. On that day, she decided there would be no more children’s
books. She was through with them. And from there, it was only a matter of time before the poems began to come back. Only words
and phrases in the night at first, as she drifted off to sleep, and later, whole stanzas that came to her at dinner with Bill’s
decrepit parents or while she gripped the wheel and listened to NPR and waited for the wax coating in the car wash.
She had a whole book—forty-nine poems. The book frightened her. There was no saying what the poems were. There were few characters,
rarely any complete human forms. War, and fear of war, and fear of loss from war. But there were other phrases and lines that
did not make sense to her at all. Each one of the cards correlated to one of the poems, and the poems were printed and stacked
in a pile on the desk. She ran her eyes across the right-hand group of cards, focused on one. Then she went to her papers
and flipped through the stack until she found what she was looking for.
The truth was, she had no idea what she was doing with any of the poems, and she had no idea whether she would try to publish
them, or what she would try to do. She replaced “Wednesday’s Child” in the stack, stepped back, and looked at the board. Some
of them she’d shown to Bill. Only a handful. He’d read them and he’d been very kind. A few times she asked him to tell her
more—more about what they made him see in his mind, more about what they made him feel. He had tried to respond. It was not
his strong suit, this kind of thing. He was better at the stock market. He was better at taxes and finding property to buy.
Snowblowing. She no longer had any poet friends. The only other reader she could go to was her mother, but so far she hadn’t
been able to do it. Her mother’s readings would be the opposite of Bill’s. Her mother’s readings would be too deep. Her mother
knew too much. Her mother would see what the metaphors pointed to in the world.
She focused on another card, tacked up on the board but far off to the side, not included in either category. There was one
word written on it.
apology
This poem didn’t exist. It was the only card that didn’t connect to something she’d actually written.
This poem was still inside her. She didn’t know what it would be or how it would look. She doubted she
three. Now, at fifty-eight, she was the author of more than a dozen. She was Renee Owen. She was the smiling lady on the back
of the book. She was the lady who had written it, you see? She wasn’t famous but she was read, most definitely. She had done
well. And it didn’t bother her that she was not the best-known children’s writer of the century. That was not important. What
delighted her was the secret cadre of children who carried her stories along with them in their minds, whether they knew it
or not. There were thousands of them.
Whether they knew it or not, they were out there, an entire army, some of them now grown. She helped make their minds and
their imaginations, their rights and their wrongs, every single one. Who were they? Where were they? It didn’t matter, and
she would never know, but they carried along Fiona and Samuel, the sister and brother detectives; they carried along Wesley,
the ape; they carried the prince named Thomas on the quest to find his shield; and they carried along the kittens and the
yubyubs and the evil men who came to tell Annabelle her parents had given her up.
That voice, though—that voice that woke up and whispered in her ear on 9/11—that was the thing. That was what had left her
all the way back then, in 1969. She’d thought it was simply gone forever, that Jonathan’s death was the death of some space
within her own heart, the same space where that voice lived. The evil surprise was that it was back, a reborn child and full-grown
by the time Adam came home and announced his plans to be a marine. On that day, she decided there would be no more children’s
books. She was through with them. And from there, it was only a matter of time before the poems began to come back. Only words
and phrases in the night at first, as she drifted off to sleep, and later, whole stanzas that came to her at dinner with Bill’s
decrepit parents or while she gripped the wheel and listened to NPR and waited for the wax coating in the car wash.
She had a whole book—forty-nine poems. The book frightened her. There was no saying what the poems were. There were few characters,
rarely any complete human forms. War, and fear of war, and fear of loss from war. But there were other phrases and lines that
did not make sense to her at all. Each one of the cards correlated to one of the poems, and the poems were printed and stacked
in a pile on the desk. She ran her eyes across the right-hand group of cards, focused on one. Then she went to her papers
and flipped through the stack until she found what she was looking for.
The truth was, she had no idea what she was doing with any of the poems, and she had no idea whether she would try to publish
them, or what she would try to do. She replaced “Wednesday’s Child” in the stack, stepped back, and looked at the board. Some
of them she’d shown to Bill. Only a handful. He’d read them and he’d been very kind. A few times she asked him to tell her
more—more about what they made him see in his mind, more about what they made him feel. He had tried to respond. It was not
his strong suit, this kind of thing. He was better at the stock market. He was better at taxes and finding property to buy.
Snowblowing. She no longer had any poet friends. The only other reader she could go to was her mother, but so far she hadn’t
been able to do it. Her mother’s readings would be the opposite of Bill’s. Her mother’s readings would be too deep. Her mother
knew too much. Her mother would see what the metaphors pointed to in the world.
She focused on another card, tacked up on the board but far off to the side, not included in either category. There was one
word written on it.
apology
This poem didn’t exist. It was the only card that didn’t connect to something she’d actually written.
This poem was still inside her. She didn’t know what it would be or how it would look. She doubted she
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