words

 When I was young and I was overwhelmed with anger at my little brother or frustration about something that happened in school or indignation at how I had been scolded for something I did not do 

I would write my parents a note and leave it on top of the shoe cabinet. I could never find the words in my mouth and I did not know how to ask for their time. They would make their own time.

As soon as I heard the keys in the lock I would rush to my room. I would hear the feet shuffle out of their shoes, and then a pause. By the time the even footsteps came plodding down the corridor I would be all curled up in a ball so tight that they wouldn’t be able to reach past the railings of my bunk bed to give me a pat. I remember the day they were able to reach my feet. I had grown too tall. I felt defeated. 

Words command a space of their own. They draw you into quiet, into a conversation. I never like to talk. I can’t think of the right words fast enough. I spend the next ten hours replaying the words after they are said, scorning their inadequacy. 

The thing about writing is that you need to be in your own space to do it. My flow of words are hindered in the presence of another. I can’t write to you if you’re in the room. 

As I move from one to two, I will have to find my own space, or you will never truly know what I think. I would never know.