“Katie had insisted that I wear some of her mother’s dresses. At first I wouldn’t hear of it, but finally I realized the rags I was wearing were eventually going to fall right off me. So I made her pick out two of the plainest ones, and I had one to wear when I washed the other. Anyway, I was carrying a load up the stairs and came upon Katie in her room, bent over her writing desk. ‘‘What are you doing?’’ I asked from the doorway. ‘‘Writing a poem.’’ ‘‘A poem . . . you really write poems?’’ ‘‘Ye...s. This is my poem book. I haven’t written one since . . . you know, before everything that happened.’’ ‘‘What does it say?’’ I put the clothes on the bed and sat down. ‘‘It’s a little embarrassing to let someone else read your poems,’’ she said, her cheeks pink. ‘‘Please show me, Miss Katie. I’ve never thought up a poem in my life.’’ ‘‘All right. But promise you won’t laugh.’’ ‘‘I would never laugh, Miss Katie. If you thought of it all by yourself, that makes it special.’’ ‘‘Okay, then—here it is.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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