In the middle of dinner preparations a niece, the youngest of them all, calls to thank me for framing a drawing and poem she'd composed a while ago. She's shy, hardly knows us that well, but I sense a pride in her work being framed and displayed.
Well, you write very well, I say, do you enjoy it? A happy "yes" is her answer. Then keep writing, I tell her, keep writing stories and poems and whatever you like.
Sitting back down, opening Pages, I type a few words, smile and then frown. What have I done to this innocent child?
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology