my child is poet though he hates to be called one. says every mom thinks their kid is a genius. meanwhile, he's writing lines that strip flesh from bone - about his 92 year old grandfather - about honor about home. i see that words are just a tool for him like a baseball mitt or a pencil or food. maybe he is on to something - this ambivalence towards words. skips magic pebbles across the pond while i dig around in the dark looking for the perfect stone.
sometimes it takes a very long time to end a curse or let go of a story you made up about yourself or who you are or why you can't. but it is always in the extra innings where you find out what you're really made of.