When I was young, my mom wrote a lot of poetry. I remember her reading it to me in a soothing voice when I was four. I wanted so badly to be able to write words as beautifully as she did.
I was three when my mother first taught me how to write. With a gentle twist and pull of her hand, she made the pencil point glide across the paper like a figure skater. Mind you, I’d seen thousands of words strung together in publications and on little Honey Do lists Mom left for Dad, but to actually see a word being formed by the human hand entranced me.