He tells a story

The trees are losing their leaves.  It is my favorite time of year, and also the most melancholy.  I was here, working on revisions to YOU ARE MY ONLY, when my son called.  He'd written a story for his fiction workshop.  He was describing its warp and its weft. 

How did you get to be you? I wondered, as I listened, as I watched the leaves beyond the window fall.

For he has emerged as an extraordinary writer, a young man with an empathetic imagination, an ability to manage an exquisitely complex plot, a heart and a head tuned in to words.  He was my muse, always.  He is my teacher, increasingly.