From these shoes, the easier question to answer would be how could I not. Long before my chubby fingers could grasp a pencil or awkwardly trace arcs and lines, I wrote.
I remember being about 3 years old. I’d wake up each morning just as the sun began to break over the horizon. I’d get up on my knees to peer through the window above my bed waiting for that first light.
With cheek resting upon folded arms, I breathed in the sweetness of honeysuckle that grew along the house. With child like wonder, I watched the changing angles of light and shadow across a water color painted sky; noted the subtle change of breeze through the cracked window and the breaking of silence as birds began to sing.
Though I couldn’t commit this image to page, I was stringing together words, like pearls that I may offer the gift of this moment with all its sights, sounds, emotion, to my grandmother over breakfast.
Therein lies the answer. To write is the intimate gesture of taking the reader by the hand, luring or leading them through all the corners of yourself that they may experience worlds and wonders through your eyes.
©Laura M. Bailey, All the shoes I wear & writing down the Bones, 1990–Present. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Laura M. Bailey with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.