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I was seven, the day my No.2 pencil shaded in the blank page with a thought. I'll never forget that day, the sun shining, the smell of pine trees, and Tommy. He was my second grade sweetheart. My first love note, my first heartache, my first kiss. I was walking home from school, looking down at my papers that were rambled through and falling out of my folders when Tommy whizzed by. It was so fast, like the way the wind rushes through your hair for only seconds and comes to an abrupt stop. That was Tommy. That was his kiss. That was my first poem.

It held the time between the worn wood frame, and the thick glass for what seemed an eternity. Crumpled old loose leaf paper, the gray shade of a No.2 pencil, and my heart. Almost as if time stopped right there between the frame. A child's scribble of verse, seven. How can a seven year old find a word other than cat, bat, and hat? To this day I know that is where it all began, the Artist was born. I was seven.
It was never enough just to write, I wanted crayons, ink-pens, markers, colored pencils, drawing chalk, Paper, books, linen. I wanted to write, I wanted to draw. It was my self expression. I never had to say a word, I wrote it down, drew it. At times in my life, it has been a blessing. A way to vent my thoughts, and other times it has been a curse. During my teenage years, and early twenties, I found it to be a source of comfort. Every thought, every feeling had a page, and my name was on it.
I am older now, though I have carried those things with me all my life.
The baggage of an Artist, you never can quite throw those things away. They are the starting point, the memories. Reflections of self. Though it was easier then. The drawing pads are more expensive now. The pencils are neatly placed in a tin box with individual slots. The canisters on the desk filled with every writing instrument you can dream.
Notebooks, they date back to the early 80's, the time of my youth, and innocence. But they are the making of me. I have come a long way from that first page on a warm summer day, and Tommy. Though my first kiss only lasted a second, its reminder has lasted 32 years, as my mother found it crumpled in the trash. Framed it is now, in oak. Behind a thick piece of glass, my seven year old scribbles. My first kiss, my first poem.

Learn more about this author, Donna Garland.
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