My husband has taken on the challenge to clean out the garage. I don’t spend more time in the garage than to pull bikes or scooters out, after all it is all his stuff, or so I thought. The dusty file cabinet blocking a door opened and my youth flashed before my eyes. Tax documents, resumes, DMV paperwork, owners manuals to some now vintage electronics, and my literature folder from my school years. The yellow folder that made classrooms of children huff and sigh each year as we were required to choose a project and reflect on why we were placing it in our portfolio, brought a smile and joy for the first time.
A silly family from 4th grade slid out and I giggled. Soon the technology changed and I see the WordArt splashed across the front of a book report, each visible line of ink bringing back the noise of the printer buzzing across the page. And then I saw it. I saw my Senior year packet of poetry and a note from my teacher, “You should keep writing poetry! I hope you do. It’s a good vehicle for your voice and vision.”
Gulp.
I remember consuming words without stop at a young age, never getting enough. My numerous journals held my feelings, prayers, and poems from 2nd grade on. I never saw myself as a writer. I still struggle to at times. So here’s a little peek at my 17 year old poem. I’m holding myself back from editing it.
If Eyes Could Talk
If eyes could talk
what would they say?
Would they speak from the person’s
soul
behind them?
Eyes of a baby
simple and true
reflecting the innocence of their
lives
in them.
Eyes of a child
wide and blue
displaying the wonder of their
world
around them.
Eyes of a teen
newly opened
discovering for the first time
real pain
surrounds them.
Eyes of an adult
tired and weary
reflecting happiness and love
in families
with them.
Eyes of the older
sparking content
realizing the joy of their
lives
in them.
Eyes of the world
never closing
forever searching for
peace
within.