Her and Me

I remember her
so naïve
unsure what she wanted to be
thinking she didn’t need to choose
not yet
that was for the grown-up, me.

She thought for sure she wanted to write
but was told and retold “that’s not life”
she needed to be more realistic
find something with a steady paycheck

Still, she etched her words across delicate pages
in the margins of her notes and papers
she wrote stories of hopscotch and missing the bus
with plot holes deeper than pot holes
leaving me more confused than Winnie the Pooh

as unstoppable as Saturn’s Hurricane
she persevered through predominant words
telling her that this won’t work
that she needs education, to get her degree
despite it all, she disagreed.

“It’s not the money that drives me
or the promise of pay
or even the thought that all I will need one day
is this pen and this paper and these thoughts in my head
manifesting on pages itching to be read”

But she isn’t me
at least, not anymore
I got a degree, and a job, a front door
a room and a roof and a regular pay
she may be upset
think I gave it all away

but she can’t see
I still clutch her pen
and have mock conversations as if on a park bench
to spread her word and remind the masses that
they are not Atlas
I’ll scratch ink on pages ‘til they all believe
their past is was and always will be
part of them, like her and me.

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