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This poem began as I assume all poems do: with a gift.The gift in this case was a stone, smaller than my palm, which my two-year-old daughter, Esther, picked up in the parking lot of her school.I send back a slow-loading web page with a pile of paragraphs and some assets. Or I get the hit and I have nothing, I just stand there numb, counting seconds. Love is a kind of faith: you give it without knowing if it will be returned or how long its returning will last."[Yesterday I found myself awake]" isn't the best poem in the book, or even a personal favorite, but it's one of the most important moments I've had while writing.
This wasn't the first time she had fallen—and her doorframe was permanently warped from other forced entries—but it was the first time we noticed signs of dementia.
My partner and I got married in a bar in Chicago, then When a reader picks up the book and opens to the first page, they open the door to my house.
My house is unfamiliar to me when suddenly there is somebody new—a visitor to startle me off the couch where I've grown listless from memory.
But, years ago I saw a book review of a Queen Elizabeth biography while reading other sections of the paper.
There was a description of Elizabeth hearing about her father's death while she was in a hotel in the trees, watching elephants.