I stare at her blankly as her light body lays limp on the table,
just a moment ago she was vivid with flowing creativity.
Internally, I ask for an apology, feeling speechless
without her presence.
She is the very embodiment of expression, her thoughts are louder and more impactful than any words she could ever speak but the words she merely utters become immediately set in stone as she only speaks her truth.
The tunes she hums become translated into the most alluring songs.
When she dances, her energy glides freely causing those around her to stop and stare.
She is ancient but never ages for she is being reborn -like the Phoenix- constantly, her reincarnation as beautiful as the last and as the next.
Yet, I ignored her for far too long and down the drain went her channel of imagination.
I pick her up for what feels like the last time. Her slender body fits in my hand perfectly like if she were to hold it back. She has shed tears with me on heartfelt sheets of paper, let me hold onto her when I felt I had no one else, and listened to every story I couldn't tell then taught me how to put them into words with her venerable self.
"Oh, my pen, my pal," I whisper and as the idea for this story sprouts, she rises up to the occasion and begins to float on these very pages.
-Hanna Guzman (2021)
