Walk Two Moons

Roses are red,
Dirt is brown,
Please be my valentine,
Or else I’ll frown.

There was a P.S. added: I’ve never written poetry before.

I sent a valentine back that said:

Dry is the desert,
Wet is the rain,
Your love for me
Is not in vain.

I added a P.S. that said, I’ve never written any poetry either.

am still jealous that Phoebe’s mother came back and mine did not.
I miss my mother.

am jealous that my mother had wanted more children. Wasn’t I enough? When I walk in her moccasins, though, I say, “If I were my mother, I might want more children—not because I don’t love my Salamanca, but because I love her so much. I want more of these.”

I am jealous of whoever Ben wrote about in his journal, because it was not me

I decided that bravery is looking Pandora’s box full in the eye as best you can, and then turning to the other box, the one with the smoothbeautiful folds inside: Momma kissing trees, my Gram saying, “Huzza, huzza,” Gramps and his marriage bed.

I still fish in the air sometimes.

people needed a way to explain where fire came from and why there was evil in the world.

He was too grief-stricken, and he was trying to spare me.

If I were walking in Peeby’s moccasins, I would be jealous of a new brother dropping out of the sky

Gram is buried in the aspen grove where she and Gramps were married. We miss our gooseberry every single day.