This month has been weird. My favorite and last surviving grandparent passed away. What typically is a normal part of life felt much different this time to me.

I spent most of my time with my grandmother when I was young. Her house was more like my home no matter where I actually lived. Going back there to her funeral did not change that feeling. Even without her now, it was still home and still full of things that remind me of her. She was a teacher and I think I learned more about the world from her than anyone. I can remember writing her a poem when I was in the fourth grade, something goofy about the spring and trees. She loved it, made a huge deal about it and then told me something that utterly blew my mind.

“Always remember, poetry doesn’t have to rhyme.”

In the fourth grade, that seemed like crazy talk. All the best things rhymed but what could happen if I didn’t have to go by the rules? I wrote and wrote and wrote. I still write now, for some 38 years since and it’s her fault really. There are things to be said and stories to be invented and characters to talk.

Thank you Grandma.

I have to go now but you are welcomed here any time you feel like being the inspiration. Now I have a murder to plot amongst spies…