My art class was the place to be on Tuesdays and Thursdays of sophomore year. For one thing, sometimes we got to write. For another, seeing Tim was the highlight of my week. It had been a long time since I last shared classes with a cutie.
One assignment was to write our own poem based on an existing one. I don't remember the author or title sadly, but I chose to write it about Christine and I, as the goal was to create a eulogy-like piece and I had the good problem of not having any dead people close to me. I often thought about how she was a business major now and wondered if she was still a writer.
This was also published in the school lit mag.
When I write something now, it reminds me of you
and the stories we wrote. You used
your cool sequined journals. I used plain yellow notepads
to jot down the snappy dialogue
invented during late night conversations.
Your hands grasped a glittery gel pen, forming fabulous words
into sentences. Mine held a small pencil
that had worn away over time,
rubbing dull marks against thinly lined paper.
You showed me your ideas,
a hint of drama, two spunky protagonists,
a dash of plot twists:
excitement, tension,
a sprinkling of humor.
I reread your words sometimes--
nothing more than childish thoughts
rolled up into crinkly balls of notebook paper,
but no less special.
Your pens are tucked away in a drawer now,
chipping and fading away,
the points snapped beyond repair.
I take them out sometimes; mine with the broken erasers
don't seem as special anymore.
YOU ARE READING
Once Upon a Time: True Stories of an Aspiring Writer
Non-FictionPLEASE DO NOT CONTACT ME SOLICITING YOUR APP/SERVICE. Where do young writers get their ideas? In this ongoing memoir project, the author will tell you. Do you know about the never-ending love story that started in middle school? Or the time she com...
