Ah Yes, I Remember It Well

Do you remember the first story, poem, or greeting card that you wrote? Can you recall the space, sounds, smells, and feelings as you first put pen to paper? My memory of that day is vivid.

I was eleven and I was visiting at a friend’s house. Having recently divorced, her parents were still at the indulgent stage; bent on convincing everyone their new regime would be wonderful and exciting. In their efforts they had fit my friends room with a built in plywood desk, spread from wall to wall, with an array of shelves mounted above. The shelves were filled with pens, pencils, papers, tape, glue, etc. I remember being extremely envious, wishing I could move right in. The pungent smell of fresh paint and sharpened pencil shavings filled the air. Often, when I find myself drooling in the aisles of a stationery store, I have flashbacks to the dreams and desires entertained by two little girls as we sat side-by-side and began writing our stories.

The story itself is a blur, though I do remember that Cassandra was the name of my main character. For me it was the beginning of an itch, which I have continued to scratch at ever since. Much of what I wrote in the early days was poetry, and I am sure I could tickle a funny bone or two had I saved those volumes.

I still enjoy writing poetry on occasion, which most often stems from an overwhelming or emotional experience in my own life, or the life of someone close to me. I have included one of my more recent poems here. This one is especially close to my heart as the inspiration came from my babies meeting their great-grandmother. She was a tall, slender woman of Norwegian descent who had made her way to Canada along with her new husband. Her beautiful lilting accent remained strong all her life. She was 89 when my first child was born and lived to be 97 years of age.

I hope you enjoy this poem.

GENERATIONS by Cheryl Schenk
A piercing cry
announces the pillar of strength
as it waves a fist, like a fiery torch it draws her in
She savours this strength
born of hunger, a need to survive
Strength to sustain body and soul
Life yet to be touched by love, by pain
A heart yet to burst with joy, falter with grief
Lessons of a lifetime yet to ignite

Eyes, faded and weak, caress the child
A hand, aged and frail, touches fine curls
A shivery sloth in silk
Her strength is barren
Yet the bounty of a life touched by love,
lived in faith, fills her heart
She proudly embraces her knowledge
A lifetime enhances her soul

Generations have loved, laughed, lived
between herself and this child
Each breath, every shared intimacy
introduces this moment
Pudgy fingers grasp her gnarled hand
Precious days are few, but she smiles
knowing she lives on in this child
Generations will follow and,
at another moment in time,
they will touch


Cheryl is the author of Little Synni’s Moonlight Mischief, the first book in The Stibil Forest Adventures, illustrations by Chris Jammer.