"You have beautiful handwriting," my seventh grade English teacher says one day as we pass in the hallway.
I meet her eyes for a moment. I want to tell her that my
occupational therapist was worried about my penmanship when I was in
I want to tell her how my mom tried to make me a lefty
because I was having trouble using my right hand, but I refused to
I want to tell her about the hours I spent at the kitchen
table, grasping a crayon and trying to write an "x" on the page, but no
matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get the lines to cross.
I want to tell her how I scribbled stories on pieces of printer paper, over and over and over again, practicing.
But I don't. I look into her eyes with a smile and wish that she knew how much that casual, offhand comment meant to me.
21 hours ago