Henry's 7 Year Questionnaire

What is your name?

Henry.

How old are you?

Seven!

What is your favorite color?

I'll have to think about that.

What is your favorite food?

Umm..hmm... probably chicken croissants.

What is your favorite thing to do with Mommy?

Go for a walk at Stillwater Prairie, probably.

What is your favorite thing to do with Daddy?

Either go to his work or hang out in the garage.

What is your favorite toy?

Who knows out of the THOUSANDS of them.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Definitely a vet, but only for cats.

What is your favorite book?

Who knows, there's too many of them!

What's your favorite thing in the entire world?

Doggy blanket, or maybe my new tablet.

What is your favorite TV show or movie?

Probably The Lion in My Living Room.

Who is your best friend?

Maddy.

The Itch

I cannot tell you when I fell in love with words.

Whether it be when I was a child and the familiar stories told from golden-bound books poured into my imagination, or when I was a teenager and my diaries were filled with pages of angst and anger and a longing to find love and belonging. Or now, as an adult, when words can be the place that I feel most vulnerable and powerful but also whole.

I do not know when but I do know that if ignored, that itch, that need, eventually builds and bubbles up from inside of me until it's all I can do not to find my fingers on keys or pencil on paper until the words spill like ink, spreading across the page in a sudden flow.

Is this what it means to be a writer?

Or is the internal struggle to control the tongue, to force the unspoken into existence when the mind says "QUIET!" all too loud, are these words only a form of overflow? Like lava that cannot be contained a moment more, spewing from the deep only to wreak havoc, to carve a new way. Its beauty destructive and terrifying but also necessary.

I am home here. Safe.

This is love.