Before the Storm

The grown-ups are so funny. They look at me with those crinkly-eye smiles and say things like, “Oh, you’re such a bright spark!” or “She just gets it, doesn’t she?” I get what? I get that the blue crayon tastes a little bit like static electricity, and that if you hold the shiny side of a spoon up to the light, it makes rainbows on the wall. That’s not a secret code, it’s just… stuff.

My notes are getting a little loud in my head, so I'm going to write them down. It’s like letting the butterflies out of my tummy so they can fly around on the page instead. Sometimes, when I’m writing, my fingers get all tingly, like they’re full of little sparkling stars. I like that feeling.

People seem to like these notes. I think it’s because… well, my family is a bit like a world map. There are people with different stamps in their passports, and they visit all the time. So, I guess my scribbles are like sending little postcards home, but without the sticky stamps. They read them, and then their friends read them, and it’s like a secret whisper passing from one ear to another all over the place.

My sister, she’s really something. She’s got a whole rainbow of languages in her head. Like, four! She pulls them out for different people, like choosing the perfect outfit for a party. I’ve got three right now, but they’re still a bit shy. This is just me warming up, you know? Like stretching before a big jump.

Anyway, enough of that preamble. The main event needs to start. The world is a big, puzzle-y place, and I’m still finding the pieces. Some pieces are smooth and round, like pebbles from the creek. Some are sharp and pointy, like they’re made of lightning. And some are wiggly and soft, like worm trails after the rain.

Today, I’m thinking about… well, it’s a secret until it’s not. But it involves a very important question about why clouds never fall down, even though they look so heavy and fluffy, like giant cotton candy. And if they did fall, would it be like a massive, slow-motion snowball fight? This thought is making my brain do little cartwheels. I need to get it down before it gets too tired.

So, here we go. The paper is waiting, all white and brave. And my tingly fingers are ready. Let the words begin their dance.

Stephie