My family and close friends always found humor in my imagination. By the age of two, I mastered a wonderful gift that I still treasure today - Memorizing people, places, and things. ​ They thought I could read at the age of three. Curiosity got the best of me. I wanted to know about everything. 

 

“Mommy, what’s that?” She would explain every building on the strip. In turn, on our outings and excursions, I walked down the street naming everything she taught me. People would stare in amazement. “Oh my, that baby can read!” We had them all fooled. Mom should have taken our act on the road. Oops! I did it again. Exposed my humorous side *smiling.*

 

Sesame Street, Electric Company, and my mother implanted the love for learning and stories at an early age. Mom was an avid reader-writer. She always had a writing instrument in her hand – her favorite pen or pencil. I’m a copycat. Watching her closely, I learned how to write my alphabets and recite words long before Kindergarten.

 

First grade - my flowing right hand created the curly cues. After an introduction to cursive – writing in script, the relationship developed. Infatuation evolved into a true love affair – My pen and me. There’s something to be said about the transfusion of words that flow from your mind and heart to the pen, as it glides across the paper. It doesn’t get any better than that. I love the pen in my hand.

 

“I’ll write you when I get back,” I said waving - sometimes with tears, leaving Washington, North Carolina. That was my promise to the friends and family I left behind at the end of summer visits to grandmas. New York-bound with a heavy heart, I found comfort in returning my promise to keep in touch. Writing at ten years old was meaningful. It gave me a sense of gratitude and appreciation for learning that skill. By the way, I still write letters and place "my own Hallmark seal” on blank cards to dear friends and family. I love it.

 

Some never replied to my letters. When I returned for summer visits, we caught up, swapped stories, recapped adventures, and picked up exactly where we left off. Never missing a beat! I reasoned: "Maybe, they were too busy, maybe they meant to get around to it and forgot, or maybe they weren’t into the writing thing" – I can’t imagine.

 

“Welcome back. LOVED your letter(s). Thank you so much for writing me. I missed you.” Those greetings and salutations were gratifying. “So they did read them," I thought to myself. "My time, feelings, expressions, ink-less pens, borrowed stamps, and envelopes were appreciated,” I loved them. The ungrateful and selfish thoughts twirling in my head disappeared immediately.

 

“So let me get this straight, it’s not about me or how they make me feel?” - Wait for it - My epiphany. My writing had a powerful effect on them. I could influence someone’s life in a positive way - make them feel special. “The Power of the Pen.” I never saw this as a GIFT until someone mentioned it to me years later.

 

I now accept this GIFT with honor. “There's more happiness in GIVING than receiving…” – a true statement I’ve experienced. I immediately forgave them. Forgot about what they didn't do. And from that moment, I did me. (In my Forrest Gump voice), “I was writing.”