April 14, 2022
I thought to write of bloodshed and war, but
The paper stared in blank defiance at the pen poised en garde in my left hand.
And then, said the paper to the pen,
“Not a single drop will you spill this day on my sacred ground.”
The pen, utterly confused not knowing quite how to respond looked up at me for some sort of reassurance. I however, in complete amazement at the courage of a single piece of paper to resist atrocities of words–simply lay the pen down.
After a long retreated silence; the paper, pen and I began peace talks.
“What would you have me write, dear paper?”
And the single piece of paper, with a fresh blush of encouragement, looked up at us both, “Write of my ancestors—the trees—and the water which formed and shaped me.
Tell of the many hundred years
My grandparents stood tall in the forests
On the mountain sides breathing life for all and
Giving their lives—so that I could live.
Their stories I hold close in the treasure chest of my heart. Precious memories must be remembered and told often in times of war.”
“Go on.” said the pen, “Tell us more.”
To be continued…
With love and gratitude,