On Sunday afternoon I went to a poetry reading. When I stood up to do my thing, Both my voice and knees began to shake.
What was going on? I performed as a storyteller every day in the school library for seven years. Then I remembered. That was thirty years, almost a lifetime, ago.
We all live so many lives. (I know if I walked up to my younger self, I’d scare the pants off her.)
The poem I botched on Sunday was from a sequence of dramatic monologues I wrote when we were living in the Highland Park neighborhood of Los Angeles. (Yes, LA does have distinct neighborhoods. I’ll tell you more about them another time.)
I composed the piece in the late eighties or early nineties for a group of actors who teamed up with the Arroyo Arts Collective to do cold readings of local authors’ poems, short stories, and novel excerpts. The title was “The Marriage Bed.”
Mostly invented, the sequence drew on things that happened even earlier in my life, in the mid-sixties.
I was nineteen. I’d just run away and married my husband, a guy I’d dated a month.
On our first morning together the phone rang. One of my husband’s friends, Jim Ashley, lived in Ouray, a tiny nineteenth-century mining town in Colorado’s San Juan Mountains. He worked for the Idorado Mine, the village’s economic engine.
The afternoon before, Jim had stepped on a rotten board just inside the mine entrance and plummeted down through a dark vertical tunnel all the way from the Red Mountain entrance to the Telluride entrance, hundreds of feet.
I didn’t know Jim, but that secondhand experience drilled itself into my mind. Every so often I fall into it, just as I did on Sunday.
There was one more layer to my shaky reading. After its first, last, and only cold performance by the Arroyo Arts Collective players, “The Marriage Bed” disappeared into my files. I made a few half-hearted attempts to send it out, but knew it was destined to be one of those things I did just for myself. (There are a LOT of those.)
Then I saw a call for an anthology in Coda (which later became Poets and Writers.) It was for ghost poems. The voice in one of the monologues in The Marriage Bed, “Frank,” was a ghost, the long-dead father of the husband in the story. I sent it.
It was accepted. I’d forgotten about the book, Ghost of a Chance, until Sunday. Looking at it, I was amazed. There I was, hired-gun ed writer, with Rita Dove, Billy Collins, and others famous for their poetry.
Then I remembered, huddling in the back seat of my dad’s ’41 Chevy, playing with the sounds of words. I must have been two or three.
We live so many lives. So many layered lives. Sharing them with others can be a shaky experience, but we only have the stage for a few minutes, so why not?
One Way to Wonder 
Dear Dad,
You never were
much for writing
so I never wrote
you a letter.
You and I
always knew
each other
best through
landscapes,
pigments, brushes,
lenses, captured
hours, minutes,
and seconds
that will never
come back
but could be
relived again
and again
through transparencies
or stacked paintings
in a closet.
I write to you
now, looking
down at your
hands, freckled
and funny
as a write this,
and later,
when Alden
and I take
pictures of winter
deer, you will
be shooting with us
As always,
Linda