Day 1: Why do I Write

All The Shoes I Wear

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…

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