Tell Me A Tale

When you were young, did you like to write? Did you put on paper the clever little turns that words took in your mind, winding down detours that promised never to let you sleep unless you got up, sharpened the No. 2 and applied them to paper, where you could read them thrice before laying down again...only to get up a half hour later and read them again to see if they were still there, and if they could make you feel the genius you wanted to be...you knew you would become...in due time?

We've gathered again, another month flown by. On a busy street corner, we all watch and listen with interest as the poets share their tales, some the poems of their youth...those works of art, the masterpieces we treasure forever, some their fears, their triumphs, their woes, but all unveiled windows into the memories painted with words on their souls.

I had never understood them, the poets, the dreamers, never knew why they would gather to honor one another's words, or wait their turn to paint the night with words of their own, but tonight, and each time, I get it just a wee bit more. This is the audience we dreamed of when we rose to write those stories so long ago. We wanted to read them then, to anyone who would listen, but we didn't know how to find the ones who would.

Now, here they were, the willing audience, ready to smile, to nod, to listen intently, and when all is said and done, to applaud your efforts and thank you for sharing. This is why you are here, to acknowledge every other little girl and little boy in the room, sitting in grown up bodies, being delighted with the paintings of words, ready to finally read your own, drinking in the acceptance in these warm and friendly faces. Knowing your life is richer because someone cared to know what made you get up and write it down.