The question is posed as to whether I like fiction or non-fiction. I like both. But my heart belongs to poetry. I love songs and haiku and Emily Dickinson. I would much rather hear a hymn as listen to LaHaye.
When I was a little girl, I had dreams of becoming a poet-laureate. I would be known the world round and I would have respect and honor and all the things that eluded me at the age of seven. So poor then. The ridicule of the Gaston Foster classroom. I’d show them.
But I didn’t. I grew up to be just me. I have come to realize that it’s okay, though. I became a mother, which was so much more rewarding than any earthly honors could have awarded me. To hear my seven-year-old ask me, “Mom? How did you get to be so perfect?” and to realize that I asked my mother the same question when I was likely the same age both broke my heart and cheered me beyond measure
Which brings me back to poetry. It was the first thing I read to my boys. The nursery rhymes we rehearsed together are enduring memories of Jack Sprat, Little Miss Muffett, and Jack and Jill.
I may not have become the poet laureate, but I was the poet laureate of my children’s lives, and I guess that’s what counts the most.