I didn’t write for the first year of Violet’s life. Strike that: I couldn’t write. I was sleep deprived and anxious and, I know now, suffering from something with a name. Something I could have treated. The land of poems felt impossibly far away; I could barely make it out on the horizon and had no idea how to get there. Even if I’d known the way, even if I’d had a map, when could I have made that journey?
