There was never a story that I could keep from writing.
’You’re telling too much,’ he would say. ‘Nobody wants to know this.’
In my mind I planted great trees; in his I obstructed landscape. He wielded an axe in his hands and with my words built flames that licked the sky. Years passed and I stopped picking fruit.
My thoughts began to seed in my gums.
My trees were neglected and I grew old. That great forest was gone now, the trees had withered and the wood had thinned.
‘Gramma, gramma, tell us a story.’
And what could I say?
What could I say?