Writing

I looked around me. Faces of girls all anxious to tell their story. To write their stories onto paper. To make it known that their lives mattered. I was among them. Not necessarily to make meaning of my life. I didn't really think I had a story to tell. My own need to finish my last term in college in an easy fashion proved to be the most difficult task of all. My stories began, halted in the processing and sometimes never reached the departure point. The Writer enjoyed the Memoirs class. Of course she did. She's the Writer. I was most painfully aware that my story didn't want to be shared - at least not creatively.

There's no greater pleasure for me than to listen attentively to my mother's storytelling. I didn't care if she chose to stretch truth or mold it with fiction. I never tired of her lilting voice, the brilliant pictures her words painted in my head, the pauses exacted with noted effectiveness, the breath I hold in anticipation of an ending that may not exactly end happily ever after. I admire her greatly, though I dare not tell her. I want to emulate her - minus her not so attractive qualities. I should tell her. As cliche as it sounds, life's too short to be a coward and to have too much pride.