Tell it Well

A journey through the park, the sun lacing fingers with the trees,

Sweet Clara sprinkles fairy dust shaped like fallen leaves.

She twirls, runs and skips,

While laughter pours from her lips.

No concern, worry or sorrow,

But surely the three will meet her tomorrow.

For, that night, a man who will enter like a pest,

Will steal away her parents while in sleep they rest…

Justice, papers and lawyers; the days are grey

Lately, her lips stay together, no laughter, nothing to say.

Too much road noise, can’t hear the stranger’s conversation,

The sun plays peek-a-boo onwards to their destination.

Children paint laughter on every wall,

Clara, though fear stricken, a syllable she let fall.

New guardians, new home,

Many friends to choose, still feeling alone…

Weeks have passed, Clara not quite herself,

Quiet and closed off, her friends live on a shelf.

She flys in the sky, she traverses the imagination,

Through a book, she boards at that mental train-station.

In the valley of pages, she is free,

Submerged in their cool water, peace and tranquility.

Interrupted, the scene paused in mind,

Everything turns grey, fun saved for another time.

In a van, on the road, to a banquet with food and cake,

Sponsors of the orphanage give where others forsake.

The mansion was gorgeous, like something from a book,

Clara wanted to find a secret passage, she wanted to see and look.

She had to stay with the rest, but she just could not connect,

She saw one lonelier than she, towards him she headed direct.

A man, in wheelchair, at a table alone,

He might need a friend; she’ll have to leave her comfort zone.

A woman caught her by the arm, “let’s leave him be,

He’s deaf and mute, he can’t talk, you see.”

Clara responds, “he may not show in the usual way,

But he might still have something to say.”

The lady smiles and lets the girl go,

Clara runs over, the lady watched the show.

He noticed her coming, a smile grew as she drew near,

They shook hands and she shyly laughed, a friend it was clear.

She sat next to him, grabbed a napkin on the table,

She always carried crayons Incase to sketch an image from a fable.

She wrote her name, he wrote his,

Pictures, words, tic-tac-toe, an image of what friendship is.

It was time for a piece of cake, she grabbed two,

She hurried back, for their minutes were becoming few.

A question written for her, “what do you want to be?”,

“A book!” She said, but she drew so he could see.

“Are you full of stories?” on paper, he asked,

“Yes, and I want to tell them all to the very last!”

She drew a question mark, pointed at the question then him,

He grabbed another napkin, and a drawing did begin.

The globe with a sailboat on top; a stick figure inside,

“You want to sail the world? I’d go too, we’d be side-by-side!”

A lady called the children together,

Time to sing, join the spirits, with voice they tether.

Clara looked, the man had left the table,

She scanned the room to find him if able.

At the last, she saw him wheel through open door,

The wooden panel shut; she saw him no more.

Singing concluded, the sponsors brought gifts,

A mound of choices made children’s eyes sift.

In alphabetical order, they chose their prize,

Clara waited her turn; scanned with her eyes.

Amongst the toys and trinkets, she saw something stand out,

When she freed it from under a doll, she nearly gave out a shout.

It was a small journal, black leather bound,

It fit perfectly in her hands, it was aged all around.

A leather strap and clasp girded the pages within,

She opened and the smell of an aged paper did ascend.

Running her finger across a line, she smiled to herself,

“A home for my stories, my friend’s own shelf”.

The lady asked, “Is this your choice, indeed?”,

Clara smiled and hugged the book, “It’s all I’ll ever need” …

Yellow, orange and white danced across the wall,

Journal opened, sat in silence, the words didn’t seem to fall.

She stared, pen in hand, her mind was an endless blank,

She fished words from and empty tank.

Frustrated, she closed the book, returned it to it’s box,

She put on her shoes, so mad she forgot her socks.

She visited her friends, tried to distract with a book,

But none would speak to her, none gave her a look.

The grey crept in, the cold started to seep,

Maybe just a silly girl, with ideas far too deep…

The zoo, animals sounded, people spoke and walked,

The children from the orphanage, stayed together and talked.

Clara, quiet and mellow, watched the moving grey lines,

They moved along everything that had designs.

She stuck her hands into her coat,

Sudden excitement as she felt that familiar note.

Out with hand came that little black journal,

Stunned, that box in her room, it should have been internal.

How it got there, she did not know,

Its location, only to her, the box would show.

Opened where the pen was inside,

Faded letters, a question did reside.

“What do you see? Write it here,

What do you see, tell me, dear?”

She wondered who wrote this down,

Turned to see who might be looking around.

Clara read the words again

She decided to give in.

As they continued, she wrote down everything she saw,

More and more detail, she wrote about it all.

At first just notes, then deep descriptions,

By the end of the trip, and full narrative of perceptions.

It was night, the stars were out, time for bed.

Instead of in the box, under her pillow beneath her dreaming head.

She woke in the night,

She was thirsty and a dream gave her fright.

Returned with water, the journal on her desk,

She was spooked, was it a test?

Clara turned on a light and opened to where she stopped writing,

Another faded question, she looked around for someone to be hiding.

“What did you dream? Write it here,

What did you dream, tell me, dear?”

She remembered her dream was strange,

So, she wrote as she dreamed it without a change.

Even after writing the dream,

She had more to say it did seem.

For she was up all the night,

The story of the dream gave her mind flight.

When she woke, her journal was her pillow,

After her story, a comment in that ink so shallow.

“Look, you wrote a story, your first friend on his shelf,

Don’t stop now, you won’t forgive yourself!

Let the words rise, and let your imagination swell,

You have a story, tell it, tell it well!”

She stopped questioning the mystery of the faded ink,

For the questions and prompts promoted her mind to think.

One particular prompt she will always remember:

“If you had $20,000, how would you spend ‘er?”

She never really wanted much, she always had what she needed,

But she thought of another, and for him she interceded.

She wrote: I know a man, who was a friend you see,

He disappeared before I could tell him what he meant to me.

He had a dream,

But was disabled it seemed.

He wanted to sail the world,

I’d buy a sailboat, learn to sail, I would.

I would take him around the world, we would conquer the sea,

That way I’d show him how much he meant to me…

Years have passed, and so has the grey,

Yellow, orange and green she convinced to stay.

In her twenties, Clara’s name on books that sell,

She has told stories, and she’s told them well.

A call on the phone,

An invitation to a home of the unknown.

She flies to an old city with a new look,

Drives up to a mansion straight out of a book…

An image of an elderly man,

She recognized him, no voice or hearing, but had a steady hand.

He had passed away,

No children, no family, perhaps he was alone always.

A man in a suit met her in the parlor,

“Welcome, Clara Dean, our guest of honor.”

“I am filled with sorrow and my heart is somber,

But take joy, for all you see you are now the owner.”

“What?!” she said, “How can this be?”

“Here is his will, look and see.”

Sure enough, her name was there,

Without a doubt she was the heir.

The man presented a wooden box, and stepped out,

Clara sat and tried to sort it all out.

She opened the box and was surprised to observe,

A little black book that looked just like hers.

She opened it up, and chills riddled her spine,

She pulled hers from her pocket, side by side she aligned.

The faded ink in his journal was prominent in hers,

Both had the same writing, just the ink tone was different in the words.

This man was her teacher and encourager all these years,

He was truly her friend, her eyes blurred with tears.

She laughed as she cried,

This discovery was overwhelming, it could not be denied.

A magic set of journals, friendship bound and tethered,

A love transcending the elements that could not be weathered.

In the box, also, was an envelope,

Just a twenty-thousand-dollar check and no note.

The suited man did return,

With him he had an urn.

“He requested that this also be given to you,

His will states you would know what to do.”

She looked at the check, then to the urn,

She smiled, the favor she would return…

Blue was the shifting landscape,

Clouds, from the sky, they did drape.

The sails, seized by the breeze,

The boat moved with ease.

They sailed as free as the wind,

His final voyage on the air into salty sea descend.

He saw her need,

Her creativity, he did feed.

She longed to fulfill his request,

Now, they can both rest…

A banquet for the children,

Gifts to make their spirits ascend.

A boy who likes to write,

Will stumble upon some magic tonight.

A little black book,

With a fairly common look,

Clutched in his arms he took.

In her journal, Clara will write,

Her words will appear in his book that same night…

“Let the words rise, let your imagination swell,

You have a story, tell it, tell it well!”