Books and Blank Pages

by amariahcondon

On my seventh birthday,

my mom gave me a book filled with blank pages.

That was the year I began to draw and write.

That was the year I finally made a friend in school, the year I finally found joy. I filled up the pages of my book quickly, and it was completely full by the time I turned eight.

That year, mom took me with her to buy a new book,

and I kept it in my backpack with my old one. That year, I made another friend and learned what happiness truly felt like.

Every year after that,

mom bought me a new book of blank pages, so I could fill them with life.

But one year,

my friends left me alone at school, and my mom forgot my birthday, and I couldn't remember what it felt like to be happy.

That was the year I stopped writing and drawing,

because there was no point. That was the first year my pages remained blank.

That was the year I fell in the lake,

and my backpack filled with my old books, my glimpses of life, sank to the bottom. That was the year I left my mom and my so-called friends and my school.

That was the year

I went to visit my old books and their colorful pages and decided to stay.