The Poem

By Chrissy Engstrom (1997)

My name is Alice, I am 65 years old. Though my own life is quite entertaining, I would like to tell about a recent experience involving my niece. She's quite a young girl, only 17 and much taller than my five feet, though I'm not sure exactly how tall. Her gold hair falls in waves down the length of her thin back. She's an attractive girl, I would say. It was just last week that she came bursting into my kitchen, dancing in circles. Her cotton dress flowed liquid-like around my furniture. "Oh Alice! I'm... I'm... I don't know what, but it's amazing!" She poured the words upon my ears uncontrollably. Scarcely looking up from the small lit fire, next to which my bread dough rose, I asked her why she was so "amazing". "Oh Auntie, I just don't know, but I love it, I love everything!" "You're in love?" I asked hesitantly, while kneading a second loaf. "Well... yes... I think so... but not with any certain person unless it be myself. I love everything, but see Auntie, everything seems as if it is me right now... I am everything and it's so... it's... it's Amazing!" she said brightly. My niece then sat down and plucked a daisy from the vase on the table. Absently she began picking petals from the flower, and dropped them into her lap. A smile lingered faintly upon her lips as she hummed a song unknown to me. Her wide green eyes focused on a point in some imaginary reality. "Auntie Alice?" she asked suddenly, but nearly inaudible. Then without awaiting an answer, continued her question, "Do you have paper and a pen? I am inspired to write a poem." From a drawer near my cooking area, I produced for her a piece of paper and a pen, then settled back into my work. My niece's pen began gliding back and forth across the paper. Then, satisfied, she sat back and held the paper up. Before long, she curled back over her art, crossed some words out, added new ones, then settled back a second time. She gave her final masterpiece a critical glance, and asked me to read it. I don't remember her words exactly, but they were similar to the description she had given of her mood: Amazing. I told her as much, then returned the paper, afraid that I might dirty it with my dough. My niece smiled, told me she too liked the poem, then tossed it into my fire. I looked questioningly at her, but her only reply was a satisfied smile.

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