Incurable Fever

Being home alone with my dad, felt like a death sentence. The sentencing wasn’t because of the relationship, but was due to being out of school. I loved school and I loved learning. No ferocious learner wants to hear, “you’re too sick to go to school.” After offering up my weak arguments in an attempt to change my parents’ decision, I ceased pursuing the issue when they threatened to call the doctor. Doctors meant shots; that was worse than a death sentence. My fate was sealed when Mom drove my brother to school—alone.

Moping from room to room dragging my prison garb of a warn-out blanket, I continued to sigh, sneeze and sniffle. Finally Dad, my warden, had had enough.

“Why don’t you write?” he suggested.
“What?”
“Write a poem.”
“Why?”
“What else are you going to do?”
Touché.

With paper and pencil in hand, I prepared to write my first poem. After staring at a blank page for quite some time, I decided to stare at my Dad. Putting the newspaper down, he broke the silence.

“What now?”
“How do I start?”
“Start what?”
“Writing a poem?”
“You just start.” He indicated the conversation was over when he walked out of the room.

Great. You don’t tell a nine year-old stuck at home who wants to be in school to just start something with no further instructions. Initially, the only thing that started was the sighing again. I stared out of the large picture window and watched the clouds.

Can I write a poem about clouds? I wondered. Scribbling, erasing, and more scribbling, produced a six line attempt at writing my first poem. Dad walked backed into the room and tentatively I asked if he wanted to hear what I had written. He listened as read the short poem that ended with these two lines:

"Maybe yes or maybe no,
I hope the clouds will never go."

The words of encouragement Dad shared are lost in my memory, but they were enough for me to turn over the page to write another poem. Dad placed his hand on my forehead and frowned.

“Fever is rising; we probably should call the doctor.”

That was the first time I experienced the death of inspiration, but only for the moment. The sickness and fever that kept me out of school that day became a memory in the distant past, but I developed a different fever—one for creative writing.

The clouds I saw that day from my parents’ home are gone, but the clouds of desiring to write never left. Writing is a process. There are "maybe yes" seasons in my life for writing and some "maybe no" seasons. The incurable fever my dad started on that fateful day I hope will never leave.

Why don’t you write?

Hmmm, I think I will.