She was a lover of the blank page. In 7th grade Mrs. B unlocked the door
to her swooning heart with a story of apartheid, and her first poem marched
forth in a brave cry for beloved justice and care. Sometimes words would trip
over each other pouring out of a thought cloud pregnant with emotion.
At other times, the landscape of poetic prose was dry, an arid dessert
where every last drop of creativity was squeezed from any life remaining.
She loved the way swirls of cursive ink would decorate the white space
like paintings hanging in an art gallery. The danger was always in judging
the words, revising them multiple times till they were journal worthy
of belonging. What if this is not the final draft, she thought,
the blank page an open door to something more.
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