Kaitlyn

I write.

Growing up in the tropics,

Hot and humid,

The struggle just to survive.

In a household of many,

Together yet all alone.

Culture and traditions continue,

Acting as a fortress against war.

Hardships pushed through until

Feet finally reached American soil.

I write.

Living in a simple town,

Playing outdoors in the summertime,

Family and home as one.

The middle child,

Always stuck in the center of battles.

Catholic through school and church,

Prayers to stand strong.

Stood out in every way,

Yet found a spot to fit in the mold.

So I write.

In between two opposites,

Building my own path,

Using their pasts as a ladder.

An only child,

No one to share or speak to.

Family secrets weighing on my shoulders,

With heavy memories elsewhere.

The teachings of past religion,

Many stories left to be understood.

A solar eclipse on all days of the year.

Will I write,

A story to impress or inspire,

Or a road for others to follow?

Ideas paved out a long road in front of me,

Yet all I have to do is fill the potholes.

Both the memories,

Past and present make me.

So I open up this blank book,

Made of a hard cover and soft pages,

To write.