Crayola Love

December 22, 2011
By Anonymous

At age three, I fell in love with my crayons. How could so many colors be made from one little box? I could scribble and draw for hours on end, proud of my masterpieces that actually just looked like nonsense on paper. Soon, even my greatness deserved more than just paper, and to my parents’ dismay, the living room walls became my new canvas. Mom and Dad would try to scold me, but I was unstoppable. Although the lines and the swirls meant nothing to an outsider, I was infatuated with the stories that I created. They were not much, but they were made by me. I found pride and accomplishment in the silliness of it all.
Despite my incessant love for these crayons, I soon outgrew them for bigger and better things. The scribbles were not enough. While I would be able to decipher them with ease while in the moment, the next day I would come back and see them as just random hieroglyphics that were impossible to understand. I needed real words—real substance that I would be able to grasp and connect with every day, something my scribbles could not give me.
At the time, Mom and Dad, naïve and new to the whole ‘parenting’ business had absolutely no idea that they would actually have to teach me to read. So, I picked up my alphabet games and taught myself. From the moment of realization that I could formulate words with simple little characters, the thirst for more became a desire that I was determined to quench.
It was Grandpa who quickly took me under his wing and trained me to soar higher than expectations others set for me. He was the first one to take me to a bookstore.
The waves of coffee scents crashed into my nose as I gazed around tiny fingers gripped tightly around my Grandpa’s hand. With each step, the overwhelming sight of all these words and colors and pictures left me agape. After much time passed and with careful consideration, I finally find the book that will mark this historical event in my life, Goodnight, Moon.
Each syllable struggled out from my lips as his fingers pointed to the words, encouraging me on. My heart thumped with each new challenge, and I felt waves of relief with each accomplished pronunciation. With time, the words start to flow out with ease, no longer thoughts of the book but my very own, my own confident voice which pauses only to turn to the next page.
From the moment I outgrew crayons, I fell in love with literature and grew hungry for me. That Saturday, my relationship with Crayola came to a halt and my polygamous relationship with authors blossomed.

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