At the age of 10, I knew that words were powerful as I began my letter to my father. I longed to choose the right combination of words that would make him stop drinking. I understood the significance of words and how they could influence change and I believed that they would be taken seriously if written down.
I rummaged through the kitchen drawers searching for a piece of paper and a pen. I wanted a special pen as I was on a mission. Tucked beneath a handful of greeting cards from celebrations gone by, I found note paper with a single rose embossed on the lower right corner and a gold pen that my mother had received as a gift. The corners of my mouth lifted to display my delight with my discoveries. I had set the stage and now my task would begin.
Tools in hand, I walked to my bedroom and gently closed the door. I needed deep concentration. I wanted to convey a message to my father using words that captured my deepest feelings. My chest pounded as I tried to pull words out of my heart and lay them on the paper. I was afraid of his response, yet I felt driven that there was a purpose that I needed to fulfill.
There have been many times over the years I have taken a pen to paper to write my thoughts and feelings. When I am feeling lost I can find myself on these pages, sifting through the ways of the world that cling to me as I step through the door. I can one by one discard the expectations that stick to me like leaches, sucking the life out of me....
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