In a noisy household, I was regarded as “a good child”. I never got in the way. I’m not quite sure how I managed that because I was curious about everything.
Being “good” had its downside. I recall although my family were well known in the community, someone commented they were surprised my parents had three children. Although it was said in jest, the child in me was wounded. And, snap! just like that, I became the invisible child.
The urge to write probably took hold in those early years. My reasoning was simple. If I could not be seen, I had no voice. So I decided I would speak with my fingers. That throwaway remark was the start of an interesting journey. One I reflect on often.
I have changed over the years. Found my voice, if you like. I am no longer ‘a closet scribbler’.
Like a dragonfly, I make myself visible.
Each time I write.
Until next time
a dawn bird