Some woman named Nancy sent me a message via Facebook, and I didn’t know what to do with it. She claimed I wrote a poem, and she had a grammatical question about it.
The problem was I didn’t recognize the poem she referenced. I hope I can be excused, as I’ve written more words than are in War and Peace and The Brothers Karamazov lumped together.
I ignored the post for a while, until curiosity intervened. Tonight I wrote her back, saying I didn’t believe I’d ever written a poem title “Legacy.” But she began sending the poem to me, line by line. It’s all on Facebook.
And when she got to the line wherein her grammatical question lay, I realized I was the author. And I was touched.
I’d written that poem years ago as part of a collection called Bittersweet, a collection that chronicled my disintegrating marriage and never saw the light of publishing day. I don’t even know where Nancy came upon it.
I wrote her back acknowledging that she was correct on both counts. I was the author and she was right about the grammar. She responded that she was writing her obituary and wanted to use the poem in it.
If I never publish another work, Nancy has validated me.