A few weeks ago, Ava decided she would write a poem. 15 minutes later, she came back with this:
In all sorts of shapes,
with their beautiful capes,
and all the colors there are,
the sage and the rose
and all that grows
On Sunday I was helping her type up a Tall Tale she'd written at school for part of her homework. I'd asked her to read it to me, while I typed. Around the second conflict, she paused. I looked at her.
Her face turned red and tears started rolling down her cheeks.
"What's wrong honey?" We'd been having so much fun up until this point.
"Sometimes, when I have to show someone something I wrote it makes me feel worried that they won't like it." she managed to sob.
"Oh, honey!" I wiped her cheeks with my palms. Pulled her to me. "You're a writer!" I said.