I am from long nights of dedicated practice
Filled with cramped fingers and squeaky B?,
Fuzzy reeds blessing me with coughing fits
I am from finding pleasure in rough drafts,
Final projects never good enough for her
Being torn down again and again
Until I give up.
I am from cold friends
Making plans without me
Not caring if I overhear
Not caring that it kills me inside.
I am from home cooked meals,
Spicy curry on the table that burns my nose,
Smiling faces ready to hear about my school work
A good pick-me-up to a bad day.
I am from nights filled with paranoia,
The house creaking and cracking in the dark hours
Nail biting anxiety keeping me awake
Until I’m too exhausted not to give in.
I am from long overdue weekends,
Ballet music filling the air and my heart with joy
Making me scream into Rosetta Stone
Like the crazy babuska I truly am.
I am from overfilled scrapbooks and macaroni picture frames,
Memories of what was now piled in my room
Thoughts of writing being thrown away with old report cards
Drowning out my sorrows with more practice.
I am from kindness when I’m feeling down
Helping keep my dreams soaring high
Just to be knocked down come Monday