When I was born my mother 

gave birth to three creations.

The first: a bird who arrived 

in her arms, flightless and ugly.

The second: marigolds that she 

planted in the month of October.

The last was a marker, unbound, 

that danced on everything.

Murals formed on our apartment walls.

My mother taught her bird to fly and about

the joy and dangers of the vast, blue sky.

When the marigolds sprouted from the dirt,

she gave them to friends who birthed flowers too.

The marker was forgotten, collecting dust. 

When my father saw it, he freed its colors.

But sometimes my parents’ eyes would become blurry;

they watered the birds and fed worms to the marigolds.

My father kept the marker full of ink

and taught it to color the world.

Then one summer, a Storyteller 

who knitted with black letters instead of yarn

received the marker from my parents.

She built castles, soldiers, and princes

that were only seen with the heart.

That summer my father’s marker 

learned how to draw with Words,

to create fitted lines.

And though they looked colorless,

the stories within never lost vibrancy.

Time passed until the bird grew strong and proud

and soared through the colorful world alone.

The marigolds grew out of the garden,

drank rainwater, and befriended the sun.

But the forest was harsh,

and the birds sometimes had to fight to fly.

The sun would hide and wind would strike the marigolds.

Flowers died, and then new ones grew.

But the marker never ceased to scribble,

adding bonus chapters to reality.

Through the hunger and resilience of the bird,

the dead leaves and new buds of the marigolds,

to the marker, they returned home,

safe within the comfort of its lullabies.