A family of writers

I come from a family of writers
We build sentences
We are worlds
Within words
We sometimes
Are Run-on sentences
We sometimes ….
Break off

I don’t know when I really began writing
Maybe it was when I was young
And snuck into my sister’s journals
And envied her quick scribbling
Or maybe it was
When my mother
Showed me her letter
From the president
Or her journal
That she threw away
explaining that there are some things
We write
Just for us

There was a girl
When I was a teenager
And she asked me to write her
So I tried
And mostly plagiarized
They were more like
Manic humming birds

My mother writes
Letters and notes
She puts them in baskets
And sends them to people
It’s an Indian thing
I wouldn’t come to appreciate
Until much later

My cousin writes
Witty insightful lines about books
And films
And many other secrets I’m sure
Her brother writes too with his guitar
Her sister writes about the pain
Of a loss
A puzzle piece
That we cannot even imagine
I cried for a week
I feel things
That’s another Indian thing
Or maybe it’s just me
Another cousin writes about her
Dreams and her thoughts
Shadows on walls

My sister writes
In words
Like the weather
It’s cloudy
Other times the sun shines
But it changes
Like the weather
So bring your umbrella

I write
Or under my window
I send a lot of letters
Sometimes with poems

I’ve never been a calm person
I’ve always been anxious
My handwriting
Never has been able to stay inside
The lines
I’ve never fit
In a box
There’s no label for me
A girl who wrote much slower
And with less friction
She gave me
A gift once
For all the words
That refuse to
Stay in straight lines
I’m working on filling every page

I come from
A family
Of writers
We are worlds within words
Stumbling into
The things we love
The things we obsess over
The things we celebrate
The ones we mourn
The ones
We love

You steal us
Those moments
When we write
You open us
have us
And hearts

photo credit


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