My little Poe book has moved with me more times than I care to count. Packed and unpacked. Darkness and light. And always in the first box I opened in the new place. My Poe book and my children and I have criss-crossed this country from cities and towns in Florida to Seattle,Washington, and then finally landing here in small town Michigan where we live our days celebrating each unique season. Though my three teenagers would disagree, there is something very charming about living here for the past seven years.
In each place I've ever lived, my little old Poe book became a reminder of my mother and from whence I came. It grounded me. It has always been there, resting quietly until I take it down from its place and gently turn the brittle pages and run my fingers over the lines of my favorite Poe poem, Annabel Lee.
There was something about those last lines of Annabel Lee that resonated within me and furthered my love for poetry. For the past 28 years I have written off and on, sometimes going years uninspired to write...but always, my little antique Poe book was there waiting quietly for me. And my mother, never too far from my thoughts.
So, Happy Birthday Edgar...and thank you for your words pressed into the yellowed pages of a little brown book that made everywhere I lived a home, and inspired me to write. And thank you mama, for the very first gift of poetry...and the little old book that holds the memories of my young-ness and my spirit....and always reminds me from whence I came; of you mama, my forever home.