Yellow paper

As a young boy, I liked to be alone with a pad of paper and a pencil. It wasn’t for homework or drawing but a place to express what was going on in my mind. My parents didn’t think too much about it but my grandmother thought differently. She encouraged me to write whatever came into my mind, be it a memory of something or someone, maybe a place I had gone or a friend I just met. She told me never to stop writing because one-day, people would pay to read my words.

I lost count of the pieces of paper that I had given to her that She read several times before locking them away in a small trunk she kept in her bedroom. When she passed, I was given those pieces of paper, which were a considerable amount. They went back over forty years each one a bit of myself growing up writing what my heart told me to write.

I read every word on every piece of yellowed paper, re-living my life through my own eyes, it was to say the least a mirror into my soul. When I was selecting pieces of my writing to be included in a now published book titled “Raw Emotions,” I picked several that were tucked away for so long in grandmas trunk. A lot of parents and grandparents save pictures showing their young one's growth and life stories but how many save the feelings of a young boy growing up who just wanted to write words?

I was close to my grandmother and think of her often especially when I pull out a yellowed piece of paper she saved so someday people would read my words

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