Hank: Whattcha writing, mama?
Me: I am working on my ladybug story.
Hank: Can I hear it?
Me: It’s not done. I only have the beginning.
Hank: That’s ok. (putting down Xbox controller)
Me: Alright, but I want an honest opinion at the end.
Hank: Sure. (sitting on the edge of the couch)
Me: Lavender the ladybug was house hunting.
She had been for days,
That was until right this very instant.
She had a promising lead.
The Neighborhood was good.
Right across the road from a large field
Flooded with wild lupine, clover
And most probably poppy in the summer months.
Neighbored by tended allotments
And crumbling cottages long left to the elements.
Yes, Lavender had just about made up her mind about this place
Save one thing,
The house wasn’t a cracked, neglected flower pot or an old tree trunk,
It wasn’t a mound of tufted grass or a rick of rattan
It was a stone wall
And no ladybug of her acquaintance had ever lived in a wall.
Me: (looking up)
Hank: You’ve told me about this ladybug before on the way to our garden.
Me: I have.
Hank: I didn’t know her name was Lavender.
Me: Neither did I. That came out in the writing.
Hank: I like how when you tell me a story it is much different when you write it. It sounds like… (thinking) It sounds like a book when you write it and a story when you tell it.
Me: (smiling, soaking it all in)
Hank: Keep working, my mama. (retrieving the Xbox controller)
Me: (typing away)