Years ago I belonged to the French Art Colony in Gallipolis, Ohio. We had a one-sentence prompt for our next meeting. On my way to work every day I drove by signs that made unfavorable statements about a resident. I wrote my poem about him and posted it on my very first blog. Soon my son told me a female had found him on the internet and she wanted to talk to me, would he give her my address?
Turns out she was related to the man in the signs, and he was dead now. She just wanted me to know that he had a good, kind, loving side to him. She also said she travels the same route to and from work as I do. All of which seemed pretty serendipitious. The “prompt,” by the way, was “Such are our braided lives.”