My Beloved Sparrow

Lying on my back in my small bed, I stared up at the rafters of my soon-to-be vacant room. Technically, it wasn't even a room, it was an attic. One in which I had then spent all my childhood. It felt odd. I left all the poems though. All of them pinned to the rafters above me. Not only the rafters, but my walls were covered in words. I was a writer, always had been. Even as a little one, I would write down things on pieces of paper I could find. By the time I was in fourth grade, I started writing short stories and poems. Gifting them to other children in an attempt to make friends, or bringing them home to my mother in hopes of making her day. I began to relish the way a pen felt while being held between my fingers. Crave to feel it's tip gliding over paper void of anything yet created. The act of writing was poetry in itself for me. Nothing felt any more natural than to place pen to paper. It became an obsession. There were times I bought journals to never write, but to open them and caress the paper. That I'd buy a pen merely for the way it felt in my hand. It became my addiction. One I knew would forever be my passion in life. Although nothing could quite replace the act of physically writing, I'd traded out pen on paper for the modern day version. I now spend hours tapping away at my laptop or have my thumbs racing wildly over the screen of my phone. By the time I reached high school, I'd drawn the attention of many of my English teachers. My skills in writing were notable and they would all encourage my mother to push me to continue. Although my mother recognized my talent and wanted to be supportive, her hands were full with her other children. My eldest brother, Eljiah, was hell bent on stepping into our father's shoes, and being the baddest of them all. Dad had been sent to prison when I was twelve for what I later found out was selling illegal substances. When he was released, he did well for a short amount of time before then being arrested again. This time for something worse. Murder. Closing my eyes, I tried to clear my mind. No sense in trying to understand why he did what he did. It was done, and he chose not to be there with us doing it. But Elijah? He didn't have that mindset, he wanted to be like our Dad. Started selling our mother's pain medications at school, and robbing with the aid of a group of boys that he'd rallied up. Now a grown man, he was in deep with some bad people. Mom kicked him out when he turned 18, and he'd been on a crime spree since. One thing that differentiated him from our Dad. He was smarter, which was a real shame because he could have been anything. Then there was Danika, my baby sister. She had special needs, and needed a lot of extra attention. She was nonverbal, and used what was referred to as a speech tablet to communicate. Our family was anything from normal. It didn't help that a year ago our mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. Her middle child having a talent for making words sound pretty on paper? Well, that wasn't something that was concerning. That was good. But she had a child that had to express being hungry over a device, and several doctors appointments to attend to figure out how to stay alive for her. All the while praying that she wouldn't receive a call from the morgue about Elijah. In reality, my mother had faith in me. No fear that I'd need her later on in life, or have to be bailed out of jail. Guess she'd sealed that when she gave me the name Annora, which meant "Honnor". I was solid. So I wasn't upset with her, didn't blame her, nor did I feel neglected. I accepted that my fate was placed in my hands. I was going to take this talent and use it, and when it brought what I knew one day it could. I would turn around and take care of my mother and sister the way I believed they should have been by our Dad. Other than some pretty unfortunate family dynamics, I had a lot going for me in consideration to the gene pool. I inherited my mother's looks, which were noticeably of Irish heritage. My hair was fiery red and bounced with curls, and my skin was fair with freckles scattered everywhere on my body. My eyes were almond in shape with a slight hood, my irises hazel, but the green out showed the other shades there within. I was told I resembled the princess of the Disney movie Brave, and it drove me mad every time I was compared. I learned to just smile, nod, and say "Yes. I've heard that before." And hope they don't go any further with their comparisons that they feel they're the only ones to recognize. Usually it wouldn't go further, and I was grateful. I wasn't thin, I was, in my opinion, an average build. But my mother swore up and down I got my grandmother's , as she would call it , "Donk." I giggled to myself thinking of my mother saying it. I didn't have much of a chest, but hey, that wasn't what was in demand anyway these days. Not that I cared. But I did hate to think what it was like to try and buy shirts otherwise. They barely made anything for actual female human bodies to fit in comfortably. I'd take my small cup size over a larger one any day. My hips did give me grief, along with my thighs. My jeans never lasted, and I could forget about wearing shorts on a hot summer day. I got the worst "chub rub" on my inner thighs. I couldn't count how many times I'd cried after walking home from school. None of that really mattered anymore though, because I had more important things to think about. Like how I'd been placed on a scholarship to attend Tampa University under the Art program there. From there I'd start getting into the art communities. Push for my fresh ideas in the realm of poetry. I had concepts on how to bring it back to life through other mediums. Worked for months on my own portfolio of work to share with others. Anytime I started to think about sharing my ideas, my heart would start to race in my chest. Although I knew my vision was amazing. It could change the way poetry was viewed in modern society even. But it was funny how one could be so articulate through written words, but then fumble so easily with spoken ones. There was a big difference in creating and knowing how to do something, and explaining it to others. I had a clear depiction within my mind's eyes as to how, but the action part? I was fearful I wouldn't be able to muster the courage. It really would come down to me learning how to get my vision across using my weakness, my voice. Clearing my throat, I rolled to be on my side on the bed. My stomach growls and I let my hand settle over it. "Yeah, yeah. I hear ya." I said to it while rolling my eyes. I wasn't best at keeping up with the needs of my body. There was a chance I too, like my youngest sister, was on the spectrum. I'd done research and found I had all the tell tell signs of a girl overlooked. I didn't dare bring this knowledge to my mother. It would break her. No sense in worrying her about it. It wasn't her fault that the spectrum wasn't studied till the 1980's or that they only believed it to be boys who could be on it. Mine was subtle because of my ability to mask. Thankfully, my sister being on the spectrum helped me understand what needs I had. So I took it into my own hands to work to fulfill my needs for myself. I'd specifically asked my mother for a watch that I could connect to my phone, and a close Aunt for funds to download an app that helped organize my life to keep me on routine. It did wonders for me. I no longer had to keep journals or set a billion alarms. I also no longer need such a high dosage of medication for my ADHD. You think being autistic is a snag? Try being both autistic and ADHD! One minute, I could be hyperfocused, writing poetry at the speed of light itself. Cranking out ideas with nothing but the nutrients from a nature bar, and a couple of cups of coffee. And then the next moment I couldn't bare to think of taking a shower because the thought of being in water made me want to crawl in a hole. But it was my life, and I wasn't going to let something like being different get in the way of success. I would find a way, come hell or high water, to make a life for myself. Heck, it would make for a great inspirational story once I did succeed. My phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans, and I reach back to remove it. As a gift, my mother bought me a new one. It was the very first Iphone I'd ever owned! And I was already obsessed. I hadn't been one for social media, had to have friends willing to follow you for that, and friends didn't come easy for me. I was great one on one with other girls, but you set me in a group of them and I became painfully quiet and withdrawn. It felt like far too much work to try and analyze each interaction to find where I would fit in their groups. It wasn't like I didn't want to socialize. I loved people. I just wasn't cut out for large groups of friends. So I tended to have one or two, but never at the same time. For some reason, I always attracted girls who were the exact opposite of myself. They were far more feminine in nature, and had what I would deem to be "normal girl interests". I swipped up on my phone and put in the code I'd set up on it and saw that it was a notification for the email I'd set up. I sigh. I did need friends though, especially if I were going to make it living on campus. You can only do so much research on something. What was research without experience? Again, there was a difference in knowing and doing. I was so very good at knowing how to do something, but putting that knowledge to use was a very different story. There wasn't much else to do until tomorrow morning. Eventually, I would need to collect all the poetry pinned to the beams and walls. But it almost made me sad to leave the attic so empty. Which then made me curious to know if there were others with the ability to feel sympathitic for physical space. Would my attic room be lonely? Shaking my head at the thought, I sat up and turned myself to face the wall that I'd dedicated to storyless characters. Writing stories was one of my other past times, but primarily it was the creation of characters that I enjoyed most. I wrote descriptions, personalities, back stories, interests. Then I'd connect some of them with one another with washi tape with summaries of how they would meet and a story that could possibly be created between them. But I'd never gotten around to writing a full story though. I gaze at the wall of all the characters that never got their story and feel my chest tighten. "I'll get around to you all one day. I promise." I whispered before getting up out of the bed. Walking across the room, I stopped in front of some boxes stacked against the wall near the door. I pull out a ringlight,, "Might as well use this for my portfolio." I say to myself, setting the light on my bed to piece it back together. Once back together properly, I connect it to the outlet behind my bed and set it up in front of the wall of characters and turn the light on. I choose to use the golden light option and pull out my phone and begin to take photos. "Perfect," I say with a smile of satisfaction on my face. Photography was another medium I'd taken up, it was the second art that had taken up a good deal of my time. My goal was to show the art world how amazing combining two different mediums. I'd seen artwork with poetry written over photography, but there wasn't much out there to show the beauty of the skill of writing itself through photos. This was what my art portfolio was filled with. Photos of poetry are made into visual art through photographs. I'd hoped to express how beautiful the traditional form of written form could be to capture. I was aware there was nothing new under the sun, but I didn't want to stop there. I wanted to create a whole timeline museum of how the written word has evolved over time. Visual displays that others could pass through in real time to get the true experience. Sure I was then mixing art with history, but what would history be with art anyway? But to start, it was the simple things. I'd started setting up scenes where I write. I'd even went as far as buying a quill pen calligraphy set and taught myself to use it to create some unique pieces. I loved using nature for the background of most of my work. I'd wanted to branch out and start doing more commercial themes, but it didn't bring me much joy. That didn't mean there wouldn't be someone else though, and I knew if I could bring what I felt was a fresh look on written word, that someone would take on a more commercial look themselves. I scroll through the photos taken and choose three to edit later and place them in a separate folder. I'd get to them after I'd had dinner with family. My mother wasn't much of a cook, but she wanted to make my favorite family meal before I left in the morning. If it weren't for none of us being early birds, I'd have suggested breakfast instead. "Well you're not going to remove yourself, are you?" I said, placing my phone in the back pocket of my jeans. "But where to start?" I sighed, staring at the character wall. A part of me wished I'd put down wallpaper before I'd started it. That way I could have peeled it all off at once and then rolled it. "Well, we can do that next time." I said, moving towards the far left side of the wall. "We will start with you, Victoria." I almost choked, removing the pin that kept the first character I developed to the wall. The one who helped me realize I too was autistic, and face some unseen truths within myself. I then took the pin out of her sketch, and I let my fingers follow the washi tape to her summary, and took the pin out there too. I follow it to the love I gave her, "Brent, handsome devil. I wish you were real my friend." I said through tears. I gave respect to each character as I removed them from the wall, promising them that I would finish what I'd started. When I finished, I looked at the now clear wall, "Now we are starting something new."