The Book of Us

My son, who has been writing earnestly, sincerely for a long time now, still crafts in longhand—sharpening several pencils before he starts, closing the door to his room, and not emerging until hours pass by and several lined, white sheets are crammed with story.

"Hey," he'll say. "You busy?"

And I'll say, "Why? Did you make headway?"

"Five pages," he'll answer. Or, "Eight." Whatever the day's yield happens to be. Best part of writing, he claims, is giving the story away, so he calls my husband in from his office annex, and, all of us situated, he reads. Gives himself over to dialects, accents, song tunes—makes the passages live. I don't know what I'm going to do for entertainment next year, when he's points north, a college student.

In any case, we write for ourselves, we write to be read, we write to be listened to. We open the book of ourselves and there we are: vulnerable, and hopeful. Every single time out, this feels new. Every single time it's equally dear and dangerous.