I started writing because I had something to say that I knew I shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t ever say out loud. I wanted so much to get my words out, to express what I wasn’t supposed to be feeling, that, I had to find a way to give them life, so I wrote.
When I was younger, I overheard things that my parents talked about, things that I wasn’t supposed to know, things about my aunt. She was young and defiant, and slowly getting lost in a world of darkness. I was nine, and I wasn’t supposed to know about any of it, but I could see the dark circles under her eyes and the tremor in her hands.I can remember a time when her fair skinned, freckled hands would pull my hair into pig tails and then she’d kiss my cheek. I can remember the sun shining through her auburn hair and her crooked smile greeting me, her ripped blue jeans and her blue eyeliner, and singing Journey songs on the steps of my front porch with her when I parents would go out at night. She was fun, and loving, and young, so very young. Those are the memories I carry of her with me.
But it was the dark memories, the whispers, the bad things that were happening to her, the running away, and the drugs; that made me write. She ignited a fire in me that still burns. I have put a lot of miles between me and those memories, a lot of pages filled with millions of words. And no matter how far away, or how much time has passed between us, she is still a part of what I am now – a writer.And now, as her life hangs in the balance, I close my eyes and listen for the opening notes of Faithfully by Journey, and I remember those gentle hands, those faded blue jeans, and that blue eyeliner, and her crooked smile, but never the darkness.
Highway runInto the midnight sun
Wheels go round and round
You're on my mind…
Journey - Faithfully