* For Bev, who brings joy. Happy Early Birthday!

When you were

born, the witches

gathered around you

in the darkness.

They were shrouded

by shadow and

the clothes they

wore helped them

blend like smoke

into the night.

Each of them

looked down upon

you, their eyes

shining like bright

jewels in the

twilight. The first

woman, a lady

with dark hair

and eyes so

dark it was

as if she

carried the sea

within her said:

“Give her bravery.”

She waved her

hand and a

shower of silver

sparks fell like

stars upon you.

The second woman,

taller than the

first, with red

hair that fell

in ringlets down

her back and

a litheness to

her frame and

green eyes that

were bright like

precious emeralds said:

“Give her kindness.”

She waved her

hand and the

air was filled

with lights that

fluttered around you

like wishes. The

third woman, a

matronly woman that

had bright blue

eyes that shone

like sapphires and

blond hair that

fell in ringlets,

her whole form

pulsing softly with

a muted glow,

smiled down at

you and said:

“Give her a laugh that is like music that will bring joy to all who hear it.”

She waved her

hand and light

that shone like

the sun filled

your bassinet. As

the years have

passed, they have

watched you grow

into the woman

that you are

today; you are

truly a woman

of remarkable bravery,

and have overcome

that which would

have felled a

lesser person, You

are the embodiment

of kindness, always

giving from the

heart in everything

that you do.

And your laughter

is the most

musical sound that

the witches have

ever heard and

that is your

magic. It has

the power to

lift people’s spirits

and banish the

darkness and shadow

that are often

after us. You

are the embodiment

of magic and

we are blessed

to know you.

I’m standing in front of a blank canvass.

It beckons me forward and I feel a tingling

in my fingertips as they itch for a wand

to channel creativity through.

I look down and expect to see

a brush dripping with paint

or a piece of charcoal smudging my fingers.

Instead, I see a pen gripped and ready.

Its vibrating slightly as if it already

knows what its going to write.

I place the pen on the canvass,

as visual art is another way to

tell a story, to catch a moment in time

standing still so that we can

observe its beauty. When the pen

touches the canvass, I watch as

lines of ink flow out from the tip

of the pen. These lines swirl across

across the canvass and shape themselves

into a form that is taken from my memory.

The lines begin to move so the whole

picture looks as if it is real.

I see a boy sitting with a journal in hand,

clutching a pen much as I am now.

He begins scratching the paper with

his pen, making words along the page.

I watch as the worlds he’s creating

come to life in front of his eyes

and the wonder he feels as being able

to harness this magic. It takes me a moment

to realize that the boy is me, that this

was the moment I first put pen to paper.

I move my own pen along the canvass

and the lines move and shift once more.

As the lines begin to twist into shape,

I see a young man, holding a book he

wrote for the very first time, holding his words

as if the book were a child. The young man

turns his face and I see myself.

I look more closely at the canvass

and see the title of my first book,

the words that I had typed out

filled with their own special kind of magic.

The book itself is shining and, even through

the canvass, I can feel its pulsing heat.

I move my pen one final time,

watching as the lines shift and move

into a shape. I lean my face closer

to the canvass and see that the lines

are actually all made up of words and letters,

The lines of words shift and move

and there is the sound of bells in the air

as if something I cannot see is singing to me.

When the lines stop shifting, I am

looking at myself as I am now,

my holding a pen against a canvass that is

moving and changing as I look at it.

I almost take my pen away from the canvass

when the me on the canvass turns and gives me

a soft smile, as if it knows my momentary fear.

I keep the pen on the canvass and watch

as the lines shift once more. They become

a doorway. The door is situated in the midst

of a meadow. I can flowers in the grass

moving and shifting in the wind.

There is a tree in front of the door

and its branches also bend and shift,

almost as if welcoming me to enter,

beckoning me forward to the unknown.

Slowly, the doorway opens but I am

not afraid. I blink and then the doorway

is in front of me, the meadow around me.

I can hear the whisper of the wind

through the grass, hear the creak of the

tree as it continues to wave in the wind.

I hear the sound of bells again and

they sound like music. I know that

I have nothing to fear, that these

are my words that are surrounding me

and they mean me no harm. I step forward

through the door, knowing I can return

any time I want to. I may not know what

is on the other side of the door,

but the only thing I can do

is move forward into story.

I would have

missed you if

I had not

turned my head.

I had not

seen you in

seven years. You

had not changed

much, except for

your eyes. They

were filled with

ice when they

took me in.

Your face was

creased in anger

and I could

almost see a

large black cloud

following close behind

you. As you

neared me, there

was a lot

that I wanted

to say. Such as:

“Hello.”

or

“How are you?”

or

“I hope you’re well.”

To think that

we had spent

five years of

our lives together,

yet there was nothing

that we could

say to each

other. You, because

the past was

still alive and

well; and me

because I could

see that you

wouldn’t listen to

anything I had

to say. The

look you gave

me as you

passed by me

would have left

me hurt and

severely scarred if

you had the

power to hurt

me anymore. I

only felt bewilderment

that you chose

to live with

so much hate.

You moved past

me and as

I watched you

walk away, I

realized that the

well that I

carried inside me

that had been

full of hurt

and pain was

now only filled

with light. I had

thought I would

be afraid of

you, when I

saw you next

but instead, there

was only calmness.

You had lost

the power to

effect or control

me. You walked

on, your shoulders

hunched against a

world that you

were determined to

be angry at.

So I did

the only thing

I could do.

I reached into

the well inside

of me, filled

with ink and

brightness and I

sent you a

little bit of

light. I watched

as the light

made its way

towards you, hoping

it would lessen

the size of

the cloud that

followed you closely.

Within that light,

I put one

wish. I said:

“I wish you well.”

It was my

final gift to

you. When I

turned away from

you, I knew

that you would

remain in the past

and that I

was heading home

to my future.