A Cherished Memory

I remember when I use to write poetry and read it to my parents in their room. They'd pause the TV and tell me ahead of time to breathe and speak slow, because they knew very well I speak at the speed of light. I'd read for them and then they'll clap for me and ask me for the sheet of paper so they can read to themselves. I would leave the room and stand outside the door and listen to the review, and I could still my mother say "this is deep, this is real deep, she has a gift," and my father would comment "Pansy we have a gifted daughter, she's only nine and look what she writes." And I remember the look on my mothers face as she'd give me back the paper, she carried a face full of joy, I could see in her eyes she was proud of me; she almost looked as if she was going to cry through her smile. My father barely stayed awake when he'd come home from work but he'd come and say "who taught you to write like that?" and laugh as he walked in the room. In his laugh he had a pitch that signified "you're going to be great." Now I'm nineteen and he looks at me like my mother did, the big ear to ear smile I bare is what is painted on his face as I could see tears behind it, "me and you're mother knew you were gonna grow to be talented, but we had no idea you'd grow to be this beautiful, wise, and gifted. Girl if your mother was here she'd be proud." Everyday when I think of something or create something I still remember running in their room to show it them, because there is no experience on earth that is as joyous to me as when I stood behind that door and listened to them speak of how great they know I'm destined to be

"You don't know what you have until its gone. What we are familiar with, we always cease to see. You won't notice its importance, until you realize its absence"