About seven years ago, when I was cleaning out a closet, I came across a few things from grade school my mom had kept for me. I was in a purging mood, but I didn't throw away this away what I found. One of the things, a red paper folder, I have kept on my desk. In the top right corner of a red paper folder is written,
English 8-0 - Mrs. Smith
March 12, 1984
I mean, really. I didn't remember the assignment, but once I flipped through the ten poems, vague memories came streaming back. It is interesting for me to read something my 14-year-old self wrote. Even though life takes shape year after year with added growth and age and knowledge, some natural traits never die. The themes I wrote about then, continue to be themes I write about now. Why would I share these poems with anyone? Well, stranger things are happening these days. Perhaps the current opportunity of extra time at home decluttering and organizing is revealing fond memories of a special event or a past love of some form of creativity. Maybe the discard pile is freeing up space and lightening up the air. Discovering such things is like coming home.
From 1984 as I wrote it:
As I went down to the shore today
I saw the seagulls soaring high
I walked along the beach and enjoyed,
Listening to their cry.
I saw a ship stand proudly in the sea
Far away from shore,
It would be fun to ride on one
I never have before
I saw the golden sun rise slowly
Creeping into the sky
From behind the cotton clouds that float,
Gliding by and by
At last, I sat and saw the moonlight
That reflected onto the silver ocean
The stars surrounded the moon so still
They stood brightly without a motion.
Thank you for this opportunity of time, as strange as it is, to reconnect with an unedited version of my pure self. For in this version, I am home.