All we want is someone to write for us

My youngest son, 9, turns 10 in a few days. He woke me an hour ago.

"I can't sleep."

He tossed his art supplies on the bed and crawled in after them. Graphite pencils, rubber eraser, ruler, a pad of heavy paper. I flicked the lamp switch, let the soft light compete with the moon's full glow. He lay on his stomach, eyes close to paper, and pressed the ruler against the page. One thin line, then another, parallel. A comics panel. I sat, fluffed pillows behind my back and reached for my laptop.

"Who are you writing about today?"

9 looked at his empty story, as if my answer might provide inspiration. I flipped the computer top back and pressed the button that gives it life.

"Oh, I don't know. I have too many people to write about. I'll probably write about you."

The laptop gurgled, and I felt its warm footprint in my lap as it hustled awake. 9 stared at me, at my face in profile. His hair stuck out around his ears, and I thought about winter, how hair never hibernates the way our hearts do.

"Mom? Who writes about you?"

I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it. I almost told him about readers who liked my stories and said so on their blogs, about friends who mention me in passing, in short prayer. But that's not what he meant. He wanted to know who described my scowl on dry afternoons, who wondered why I love grapefruit more than any other citrus, who transferred my uneven skin tone to page, my penchant for singing off-key to every Lyle Lovett song, the way my hair snarls overnight, all my spoken, secret dreams.

Nobody does these things. I don't think anyone notices me these days, not enough to write when I'm not looking. That answer wasn't right, either, so I kept mouth clamped tight. 9 shifted his eyes to his paper. He began sketching a penguin, an action penguin with a knit ski cap, one wing raised in excitement.

"Hey. We both tell stories, right? I write them. You draw them."

9 nodded. He added old-fashioned skis, a naked tree, a snow angel in the shape of a fat bird.

"It's our job to write about people. Some of the people I write about have no one to tell their story. But I have someone. Me! And you! We can write about people who need us, and we can write about each other."

He added another penguin to the page, a tall female with eyes almond and shrewd. My eyes. I smiled though my heart wanted to break.

"Mom, sometimes all we want is someone to write for us."

So here I sit, telling another story about 9 as he presses me into the page, gives me wings of charcoal, wings that sweep across three panels, lift me into heaven.

Comments

[Shrexy]

why do i have a mental image of a grapefruit with happy feet :-)

[Carroll]

Oh, Birdie. This is beautiful. I wish I could write poems. I'd think you with me and write your poem about a bird skimming over the water and mingling with the spray from the ocean waves and spouting whales. You could fly to the very top of Haleakela, and then soar down to the beach beyond. The nude beach, yeah, that's it. You'd have grand flying/spying bird adventures all day long and then swoop back to join us watching the full moon rise over the West Maui mountains.

Not even knowing how welcome it would make you, we bought a big bag of grapefruit on our way in yesterday.

Come anytime!

[Meg]

Lemons are my favourite. But no one writes about me either. I think we're blessed that we know how to share some semblance of our stories, though -- it's so much easier than silence.

[Louise]

No,I don't write about you or 9-almost-10 or just-turned-12, but does it help to know that I *often* think and talk about you??
Speaking of grapefruit. Did you know that in French it is "un pamplemousse?"
That's such a glorious word imo!

[Birdie]

Louise, of course it counts!!!! xoxoxoxo to you!!!

Meg, I love lemons, but grapefruit rules! Rules!

Carroll, awwwwww, I wanna hang out in Hawaii with you!!!!

Shrexy, you goofball!

[Hartsong]

I guess we all want to be recognized in some way. Maybe we don't feel quite real until another does so. I know I often feel like the forgotten one, and I wonder what (if any!) mark I'll leave on this world. I wonder this with more frequency as I approach my 59th birthday in October of this year.....! Your stories... the way you have with words and your heartfelt sharing of your inner processes define you as someone with great heart and spirit.. someone I would be proud to call friend. Know that you have touched and are touching the minds and hearts of many, and that is your legacy.