Bridget A.

Nearly twenty years ago, waking me from the slumber of a dreary classroom was a knock on the door. “Hi, who is interested in joining a poetry club?” a pair of young girls asked. I have a thing for faces. Images. They get printed indelibly on my mental canvas. Here though, the whole scene is a blur. The only crystal clear memory is my hand shooting up, eager to join the club. Perhaps it was my love for reading, or the excitement of a distraction from class. Your guess is as good as mine. I spent the next few weeks after school with five other kids, poring over poetry styles, taking home “assignments”. I would write about blackbirds and scorching summers in very elementary English and obviously child-like expression. And then, one day. Recess in the playground was business as usual. A couple of girls rode high on tire-swings, still more spun dizzily on the merry-go-round while I reserved myself to some ostensibly harmless monkey bars. Except, I struggled to switch from bar to the other, being the chunky monkey that I was. I still remember the two kids from my class pointing at me and laughing. I waited and waited for them to calm down, until my anger erupted and I threw one of them onto the grass, pulling his ginger-red hair. Not a proud moment. I still remember being called aside by our teacher and being sent to the Principal’s office, heart pounding furiously. My left hand was stamped with a black star at the end of the day, a mark of disapproval. I scampered home, pulled out my purple poetry journal and spilled my heart. The fear, the anticipation and the anger that seethed in me as I made my way to the Principal’s office. It was the first real poem I ever wrote. Well, my idea of a poem, anyway. Slowly, I discovered a panacea for my thoughts. My diary too (Barbie themed, ugh) became an avenue for my emotions, as I filled pages and pages about friends, crushes and chocolate chip cookies. I read a lot. My parents were encouraging of my reading habit, and weekends would mandate a trip to the library or bookstore. Every time I put down a new book, new ideas mushroomed in my head. More words to connect the dots. I would scribble on pieces of paper, embellish with stick figures and tuck them between cardboard covers. My own little “book”. As I grew older, the thrill of creative prompts and essay competitions at school kept me glued. Alas, between the escalating pressures of entrance exams, boards and the dull monotony of the workplace, my writing frequency dwindled. I began indulging in guilty pleasures of Youtube and Netflix binges, stuffing the proverbial cork in any creative outlet. The love for writing was still there, albeit relegated to being the lost sweater in a messy closet. Every so often, a smattering of rain, the sight of milky waves gently stroking damp sand, unbridled tears springing from the crushing pain of hitting rock bottom, bring back the sensitive kid from all those years…