She told me often when I was six, seven eight,nine and even ten that she used to read books, newspapers, journals (probably even shampoo labels), anything at all, every morning as she carries a breathing lump in her tummy—me. Growing up into a pensive, serious child,  my compounding curiosity was indulged with her providing a plethora of books. From giant, intimidating encyclopedias (I could barely understand but read on,still) to old, dusty fiction paperbacks to her interest in Greek mythology, she never ran out of things to tell me. How she told in a week the story of Goldilocks earning the rage of the three bears  and how I memorized it by ear when I was three or four, recited it in front of a throng of older kids in school. How her eyes glistened at that moment (I could not tell) but in retelling everything, her voice glows with just a bit of pride. She fed me fairy tales and in soaking in their magic, I found a dreamer in myself. I've always been a little different from other kids. A little too curious, precocious, mature, head in the clouds which I have maintained until now. She excitedly told me the story of how Thumbelina in her smallness had a larger than life adventure. How the last pig survived the wolf's bullying through his cleverness. How red riding hood looked dainty and pretty in her red cape. Or how tasty looking  her presents to grandma were. She read them all—every night—tirelessly as I held the warm milk I hated with all my naive heart at that time. I started writing for the school paper, eventually as a news and features writer. I did a lot of spoken poetry, orations, storytelling and speeches (mostly in school and some events) .Mom was in front row seats in all the writing and literary competitions I went to. And together with dad, they shut off the doubtful voices in my head real good.

I stopped writing in high school—when I was twelve. And for a long time, I wandered aimlessly with myself. To make matters worse, I was plagued with nightmares and an extreme sleep paralysis condition that heightened my fears. I often seriously thought I would die in my sleep. I totally got wrapped by my problems and forgot about writing and never got the chance to ask mom how she felt about that. But life paced itself differently when I was fifteen. One crazy dream and an insight in the shower later  and I began writing again. It was like I came from the bottom of a dry, dark well and someone wedged me with a rope back into light. I never looked back down the well, ever.

In all this history and flair for the literary, I go back to the fondness of the days and nights when mom was also my favorite storyteller who somehow put me in this direction, unknowingly. Now that I think about it, I always had an affinity with words. Like birds with the wind, like painters with their brushes. It comes as natural as breathing for me—maybe I should feel happy about that. Behind that deep connection was my mom and her stories that awakened my inner dreamer. One day, I hope to stack all the poems and stories, all the words I have ever written (good or bad) and hand it to her. Just like how she handed me this dream. I'd like to tell her I never stopped writing and probably never will. And in the very first page of that compilation, signed with my slanted signature are the words—*
I OWE IT ALL TO YOU, MOM, THANKS!

-Alex