Eight years ago today, sharp pains woke me in my hospital bed at 3 AM. The doctor said, “Call your husband and tell him the baby will be born in 30 minutes.” James arrived in 25, just as Ella’s head was starting to poke out.

Ella is now older than I was when my father died, so if I die she will remember me better than I remember him. It’s a morbid thought to have on a day of birth. I wonder if other people who’ve experienced death at such a young age think this way, too.

As a child, I kept expecting more people to die. This is what grown-ups did, right? I wondered—with a regularity that now seems neurotic—who would take care of my brother, sister, and me once my mother was gone.

Ella will never meet my father, who shared my red hair, liberal leanings, and rebel spirit. He will never take her hunting in the woods of Northern Michigan, never teach her how to weld or navigate by the stars. He never did these things for me, either, but I like to imagine he would have. I can imagine whatever I want.

My father favored tomboys, and Ella is a girly-girl, but he would have loved her, anyway. He would have taught her to make white bean soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, the way he taught me. He would have taken her into the forest, expecting her to keep up with his pace, four steps for every one of his. It makes me tired just remembering.

He would have inspected her room for cleanliness, with a military exactness. He would have made her eat everything on her plate. He would have tolerated no crying, ever (“You want me to give you something to cry about?”), but especially not on a joyous occasion like Ella’s eighth birthday.

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“I’ve never won anything before,” Ella said. “Not in my whole life.” Seven entire years. “Not even a raffle.” When she got the good news, about a month ago, one of her first questions was, “What will I wear?” (And who will you thank? I wondered. At the Oscars, the winners always acknowledge their mothers.)

“Only 36 poems won,” Ella told all her friends after that, “out of 160.”  Her poem, written on the theme “heroes,” is called “Hamster-Explorer.” Its ten lines about a fearless, furry rodent, are on display to fearless city bus riders throughout Charlottesville.

The transit center, where the reading took place, was standing-room only. The age range was first grade through retirement, dominated by high schoolers. The youngest boy wrote about his teacher, who stood next to him. One man, who is a three-time winner, introduced himself as “chronologically mature.” His poem was about his parents—four years of education between them, raising five African American children in the deep South in the 40s—as his heroes.

One of my neighbors and a wonderful writing teacher at WriterHouse, Carey Morton, read a surprising poem about a feisty neighbor (not me!). Sarah Crossland, who was in a class with me at the University of Virginia, read a lovely poem about her grandmother, likening her hands to mother of pearl. Grandparents and parents dominated as heroes. (No need for an Oscar-style thank-you speech; the gratitude is embedded in the poem.) Some of the high school readers seemed surprised at the earnestness of their words, as if they had been outed as closet sentimentalists.

Susan Berres, the organizer, said, “What I love about poetry is its accessibility. Everybody’s got time to write ten lines.” You might not be able to commit to National Novel Writing Month in November. But a poem can be pieced together in snippets, like Frank O’Hara’s nervy and elegant Lunch Poems (written on his lunch hour). I loved the community feel of this event, of poetry not as elitist, but populist fun.