Why I Write

I can remember being that little girl, with no mother. I can think back to never thinking back about my father. I can relive the moment of being snatched into reality. I can’t…I can’t…I can’t. Three years old, so many emotions, so many struggles. I needed help, I don’t know these people, help me. So I drew. I drew pictures of my mother and I. I guess I figured, they would know. Later, I used the lead and lines to help explain. I’d use the point of my pencil to help me escape; To help me jettison every sad emotion. The pink tip would erase everything but my smile. I write to help them believe, to help me believe I am fine. It is my own form of camouflage; it conceals me well. You’d never believe that all this came from a child. A little girl, missing her mother. I can remember that feeling of hopelessness, I can think back to realizing I’d never see her again. I can relive the moment when I erupted onto the paper. I can’t…but somehow, I will.