Girls, Interrupted

The pen feels foreign —

Gently resting in my hand.

I examine it:

Let it roll along my palm,

Hold it in different ways —

Until I find that familiar grip.

Ink begins to scrawl

Along a pure blank page.

I've always hated my handwriting.

Childish, barely legible.

Words a confusion of print and cursive.

Not like my mother's perfect script.

Countless hours

Spent on rote memory muscle,

Regurgitating the thoughts of others,

Perfectly scripted to restrain

The minds of proper young ladies.

Like her mother before her.

Countless hours

For so many little girls,

Their dreams and imaginations

Penned out of them —

Girls, interrupted.

I've always hated my handwriting.

Countless hours

Of riding my bike, climbing trees,

Playing Charlie's Angels

With my purple patent leather purse,

Toy gun and notes written in code —

With terrible handwriting.

Because I was let to roam — wild and free,

To be any girl I wanted to be.

And now as I begin to see,

Crawling across my mother's notes,

The same shaky script of age

As penned on my grandma’s birthday cards —

I feel the tremor of a woman, unfulfilled.

And although I am my mother's daughter,

I've lived the life of a woman, fulfilled.

Because she allowed me

To have horrible handwriting.