Blank

*Crayon Post*

When I was young,

My teacher gave an assignment

To draw our immediate family tree.

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Everyone’s trees looked the same.

A mom, a dad, and a few siblings.

Then there were those few people

Who thought their dog shared the same DNA as them.

Whatever.

.

But me, my tree never looked the same.

I never knew whether to draw just me,

My parent’s only child.

Because then the lines connecting us would make sense.

Or to draw my other siblings,

Who had different parents.

Do I draw their parent’s too?

Do I draw my dead brother?

Who was even considered part of my immediate family?

I never turned the assignment in.

.

The next time my teacher gave a drawing assignment

She told us to picture how we felt.

Imagine how we would visualize that feeling.

Then told us to draw it.

Now this I could do.

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I picked the perfect crayon,

Sharpening it to a fine point.

(As fine as a crayon could go.)

And I pressed it to my paper.

I could feel the wax compressing

As I dragged it along.

I drew dots and swirls,

Straight lines and scribbles.

Everything I needed to complete my masterpiece.

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Each mark symbolized a part of who I was

A part I left imprinted on a piece of printer paper.

The image was so crisp in my mind

Who I was, what I felt, what it all meant.

Everything described on an 8 1/2 by 11

Sliver of a dead tree.

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I was so proud of it.

How I was able to capture

My exact feelings.

So I presented it to my teacher.

She took one look at my paper

And asked why I didn’t do the assignment.

I quickley explained to her that I had,

I had just used a white crayon.

She asked me why I used a white crayon.

I told her it was because that was how I felt,

Blank, empty, invisible.

She looked rather frazzled,

Hesitantly telling me

I didn’t understand the assignment,

And that I needed to redo it.

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Clearly she didn’t understand

The symbolism of art.

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I never redid that assignment by the way.

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-The Splintered Pencil