This found, from the box of Me Memorabilia from my mom. It's a poem I wrote, dated 1973, which would have made me 10 or 11 years old at the time. The yellow paper is yellowed further with age; I see the careful pencil printing. It must have been for something I thought was important.

The old woman sits in her rocking chair
And rocks, rocks, rocks
She arises and walks to the window
Looking to see if anyone was there
She turns, slowly, and returns to the chair
And rocks, rocks, rocks
The cat crawls into her lap
He does not fall asleep, as usual
They sit together, watching, waiting
Suddenly, a ring sounds from the telephone
She answers it
Yes, she says
Of course, she says
Be careful, she says and joyfully hangs up
She goes to the kitchen and busies herself baking
An Apple Pie
Her son is bringing his wife and children
To spend the weekend.
A thousand or so years down the line now, I smile at my former preteen writer self. The grand sentiment, decent detail, the pat expressions. I knew I wanted to paint pictures with words, but had only, naturally, crayons.

What I remember about writing it? Thinking how manipulative and flat my words were, but taking the praise from my mom anyway, as I saw her save it to a file marked "Marianne."