Once, when I was sick, my mother decided to settle my stomach by feeding me crackers and alphabet soup. I made it through three-quarters of the bowl and a half dozen saltines before my stomach turned.
As my mother swooped in with a washcloth and indomitable long-suffering, all I could do was stare at the mess I had made, trying to make words out of haphazard strains of partially digested letters. I feel like I am still doing this: making messes on paper and thinking that when it is all said and done, I will read something true.
And beautiful.
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