I used to have a two dollar bill tucked in my wallet. Now I have this poem written on a page ripped from a tiny notebook I carry when I travel. It is the poem I read at my daughter’s 50th birthday party in January. I’d spent hours looking for a poem that linked place with a person’s being, trying to make the case that where she was born – Flint, Michigan, a place of hardship, grit, and unexpected beauty – defined the person she had grown up to be, but I could find no such poem. But then I found this one. I carry it around like a lucky piece given to me by a wizard dressed in velvet robes. And I say the two lead lines a dozen times a day as a mantra or a prayer: Love is a place. Yes is a world.
Bury me with the paper in my hand.