She is the sun coming up in the morning.

With her, comes the light and the knowledge.

 

She is the co-pilot,

helping me to fly the plane.

 

She is the host,

setting the table for quests.

 

She is the last book on the shelf

with all the information I need.

 

She is the mother bird

entreating me to

come to the edge,

spread my wings,

and fly.

The distance down is so great.

Do I dare to fly?

She tells me,

“If you don’t try

How will you succeed?”

Now, is the time to fly.

 

She is the Master Artist.

Her canvas is a blank page.

Her words are her paints.

Her words are Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel.

 

She is Galileo, pointing me to the stars.

The star, she tells me to be.

 

She is the scientist,

experimenting with language.

 

She is the researcher,

Analyzing history’s (or rather, his story’s) “facts.”

 

She is the good conversation

Between two good friends.

She is informant,

carrying my secrets—

my thoughts, my feelings, and my secrets

written down on paper.

 

When the world says I can’t,

she says I can.

 

Write, Kyren. Write.

 

Don’t write for me.

Don’t write for your mom,

your sister, or your stepdad.

Don’t write for anyone but you.

You write because you love it and you’re good at it.

He’ll say this.

She’ll say that.

Write it anyway.

 

Write, Kyren. Write!

 

Reading your words is a pure pleasure.

I look forward to reading more!

 

When I put the paper to rest, the words spark and flare in her hands.

Reborn--

Alive—

 the paper becomes a Lazarus in her hands.

 

When the idea is too challenging, too hard, too difficult, she tells me—

Continue.

 

She is the woman I want to be.