If I could find you, like that piece of paper accidentally swept beneath the rug, this would be so much easier. But you’re a mere dream. A piece of me that lingers near and yet seems forever out of reach.
Although, I didn’t really understand you, or know of your existence I feel you were there from the beginning. You were there when as a child, I would stare up at the clouds to find familiar shapes. You had to be there when I got in trouble for drawing a rainy day, instead of practicing multiplication.
What about those days as a child that I spent playing house, developing my imagination and a love for stories, before I could read or write. You were there then too, weren’t you, somehow leading me to a future I have yet to reach.
You had to be there, still unknown to me when in the second grade I finally began to grasp reading the English language. I earned the label “bookworm” and didn’t even mind. Oh, the adventures I went on with Mary Pope Osborne in her Magic Tree House series. It was in them that I found a love for history. Although, I doubt I ever read them all.
Seriously, there’s 55 of them in the series!
It had to be in the seventh grade, after many more books, much more adventures, that you became real to me. By then, I’d been writing poetry for nearly three years. I loved the way words could be put together to paint pictures.
I want to be a writer! I decided, in the seventh grade. This dream, you; now had a name. You became my mission, my destiny! I talked about you in my journals with purple and green gel pens. Then, with a pencil in a large notebook, I created characters that were supposed to eventually fall in love.
But what did I really know about falling in love? Nothing really. So after nine short chapters, their story came to a screeching halt as reality came crashing in. I had some living to do while you waited and faded into the background.
Now, after several more attempts at writing a novel, plenty of years behind me, you remind me that you are still there. I go about my day to day life, working and spending way too much time playing Gardenscapes. Yet, like the soft flutter of life that grows within me, you remind me that you are still here.
Perhaps, I never really lost you, perhaps, it was myself I lost. Perhaps, it is me I have to find before you become something more than a dream. But where do I find myself that isn’t on a map? How, do I find myself in a place that isn’t seen?
Margaret W. Langridge