From Scribbles to Sonnets

Tiny fingers twiddling,  

A piece of crayon—  

Brightest orange,  

Gleaming with the lustre in her eyes.  

Fumbling. Dropping. Resuming.  

Rehearsing, again and again,  

Until those tiny fingers  

Learn to strike the perfect balance.  

Trying endlessly, over and over...  

And then—  

When the tip finally  

Touches a spot on the wall,  

Or, if luck smiles,  

A torn piece of paper...  

She goes for it.  

There!  

One bold stroke.  

Her own.  

Her first.  

In that moment,  

I witnessed the birth—  

The birth of freedom.  

Freedom of expression,  

Of creativity,  

In its purest, untouched form.  

Thus began her journey.  

I wonder...  

What will those little scribbles become?  

Magnificent works of art?  

Marvelous pieces of literature?  

Or perhaps—  

Her own destiny, unfolding in strokes?  

We never know.  

One can never tell.  

But this I do know:  

Keep expressing, my love,  

With all your heart,  

With all your soul.  

For now,  

You are too young to grasp  

What the world expects of you—  

How it might try to shape you,  

Mould you,  

Define you.  

So worry not, my baby.  

This is your age,  

Your time—  

To be carefree,  

To be bold,  

To be true,  

To be you.

Scribble away,  

My lil’ Scribbler.  

And sometimes...  

I truly wish—  

 

I could be like you.