THE PENNY PUB
Like a Plow in the Earth
Holding deep to what we love
Do you have a love-hate relationship with writing? I did. I swore off writing as many times as a person with substance use disorder swears off their temporary heaven. It hurt like hell.
I’ve been a musician my whole life. Grew up surrounded by music. My mom, an opera singer, sang and played the piano on many afternoons.
She landed me a record deal with what is now Sony. But I gave music away and escaped to the States. I just wasn’t that into it.
My first poem, I was not of school age yet, revolved around the sun. Hopping with excitement, I showed it to Mom, who wasn’t that into it.
She waved me off with smiling disinterest. I was her singing protégé, not a writer.
But then I get a blue three-gear bike. Ride it fast to school through sun, rain and snow. Past fields, wet-black for months, then slowly turning green, and finally summer gold with corn. I bring home some ears and brown the yellow kernels with butter on the gas stove in Mom’s iron frying pan.
My papa — artist and photographer — takes pictures of me and my pride and joy. Birthday money goes to blue tassels for the straight handlebars.
