I dreamed about what your handwriting would look like. In my womb, you would rest & grow. One than the other. And I would think on these things. How the pencil would suit you. Which hand would be yours. How your buried & inside would make its natural way out. Of you. Into others.
I am a teacher of words, boys. A believer of their bounty & in their power. Concocted a wee bit crooked or masterfully piled up & spilled, I hold fast to their presence in lives. In their purpose to change. In the brokenness to heal. In their clever clout as they claim laughter just the same.
And now. Right now.I am in the sweetest spot. For words surround me. From pencil to paper, they take shape with different line ups. Letters with curls. Some with sideways slants, too. Linked & loaded, they are locomotives heading out of the roundhouse. Off they go chugging with steam puffs and smoke billows. In motion to reach. And their roundhouse isn't just mine. It's ours now.
Do you know I wrote your name in cursive at least a million times? I wanted to be sure it was just right for you there growing on my insides. I contemplated each curve & placement. I counted syllables and thought about you, too. Longing for the day I could touch tiny fingers. And now?Right now. You make those very curvy turns yourself. Your tiny fingers are off. And on their beautiful way down the tracks.
Sweet spot, you say?Oh yes, boys. Yes. Of highest privilege I consider it one fine honor to not only carry you, but create with you, too. From womb to words, I am smitten with this role. Your minds are alive and make mine that much more so. Your syllables there on paper are doing it. They most certainly are. Changing & healing. Connecting & keeping. Propelling power all wrapped in story.
One right & one left. Your buried & inside is making its natural way out. Of you. Into others. From pencil to paper. In motion to reach. Surpassing all my dreams of you, I am so thankful to know your handwriting more.