My Script:
Crayons
The most prevalent
memories of my childhood involve drawing.
I can think back to as early as 2 or 3 years old. The memory of contemplating the colors in the cigar box of Crayola crayons that my sisters and I used to draw.
I can think back to as early as 2 or 3 years old. The memory of contemplating the colors in the cigar box of Crayola crayons that my sisters and I used to draw.
I remember sitting on the
back stoop of our house, with my sister, drawing.
I picked up a piece of a
yellow crayon, and examined it carefully.
It had been battered by the other crayons in the box. It bore the marks
of the attack of our hands as they sifted through the crayons in search of the
right color. Battle worn, it barely looked yellow at all; covered by marks of
every color it touched.
I remember thinking it
looked beautiful. Speckled by circumstance. Imperfect.
Our crayons were loved.
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