Madelyn Bennett Edwards

4115 Gold Mill Ridge

Canton, GA 30114

(828) 301-8192
madelynedwardsauthor@gmail.com

Follow me:

  • Black Facebook Icon
  • Black LinkedIn Icon
© 2019 by Madelyn Bennett Edwards. Site designed and maintained by LJH Graphic Design.

December 16, 2018

August 18, 2018

July 18, 2018

June 18, 2018

Please reload

Recent Posts

Why the Publication of Murder in Marksville Has Been Delayed

May 19, 2018

1/1
Please reload

Featured Posts

Special Day

August 18, 2018

 When I started graduate school and learned I had to take two semesters of poetry—and pay for the courses—I was upset. I didn’t want to learn poetry, never liked it, thought it was a waste. No one, I reasoned, wants to read a bunch of poems.

 

Not only was I proven wrong, my thinking showed ignorance and made me realize I, indeed, needed to go to graduate school to change my pre-conceived thoughts about writing. The classes in poetry, mainly due to the awesome professors I had, proved the most helpful in my creative writing education. 

 

Today I love poetry.

 

Poetry makes me look at the world differently. I notice things I never noticed before: the way two people look at each other, how the air smells just after a rain, the feel of thick uncut grass between my toes, the sound of birds calling to each other, honey bees around my ankles, breeze on branches, blossoms that turn to okra overnight.

 

The main thing I learned in poetry classes is that there are some stories that can only be told in verse. Too many words can distract from the true meaning.

 

That’s why this month’s blog is a poem. It’s about one of my five granddaughters. They are all special, wonderful, loved. I don’t have a favorite.

 

However the granddaughter I write about this month, Taylor, who is my only daughter’s only daughter (my son has four daughters) was with me after my husband, David died in 2002.
 

Click on any photo to open the slideshow. Click the "X" or your Escape key to exit.

 

This is how she saved my life:

 

Our Special Day

 

You called him, “Ed.” He was

        your Godfather, step-grandfather.

He died when you were two.

                I wanted to

                        die, too.

 

I spent countless nights at your house.

        Every morning your

                bare feet patted down the stairs.

                climbed in my bed,

                chubby arm under my neck,

                snuggled close.

        We watched

                Barney, Dora, Blue’s Clues, Pooh.

        I read you books,

                told you stories,

                made frilly dresses,

                smocked and embroidered,

                doll clothes to match.

        We sat on the

                floor, toys scattered around,

                made up stories we told each other

                over again.

 

You said.

        with a snaggletooth grin,

                “Maddy, it’s a

                        Special Day  

                when you’re here,”

        You made me want to

                        live.

 

I built a house three miles from you

        so we could have lots of

                        Special Days.

        Tell old stories over again.

 

You went to

                Pre School, Kindergarten,

                First and Second grade.

        Each Wednesday

                I picked you up

        You’d tell your teacher,

                “Maddy’s here.  It’s our

                        Special Day.”

        First stop,

                Kentucky Fried Chicken.

        We flew to Hawaii on a

                plastic airplane with Barbie and Ken,

                new and old stories we told

                        each other.

        We made

                melted cheese on Melba toast,

                read books.

        I taught you to paint,

                priceless art now hangs on

                        my walls.

 

You said,

        crying when your Mama took you home.

                “Maddy, I love our

                        Special Days,”

        You gave me

                        hope.

 

I remarried

         and moved away for

                ten years, then

        returned to the

                house three miles from

                        you.

 

You’re seventeen.

                College looms.

        We visit the

                campus,

                find your classrooms, 

                time the drive so you won’t be late.

        We stop at

                Starbucks for iced latte with foam,

                have manicures and pedicures,
                our favorite restaurant for lunch.

        I alter

                slacks for your small waist, long legs that

                        run track.  

 

You say,

        teary eyed when I take you home,

                “Maddy, this is like our

                        Special Day again.”

 

New stories to

        create together as you become a

                        woman.

 

How can I tell you

        who you are to me?

                You saved my

                        life. 

 

 

 

 

 

Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Please reload

Follow Us
Please reload

Search By Tags
Please reload

Archive
  • Black Facebook Icon
  • Black LinkedIn Icon