Drawing 

As children, my sister and I shared a bedroom and slept in bunk beds. I had the top bunk. The beds were next to a window, and from where I lay, I could see our backyard, enclosed by a split-rail fence.

My intention today was to write about a recollection of a snowy morning and how I was inspired to draw a beautiful scene of three holly trees with their red berries and the fence capped with fresh snow. 

I remember sitting up in bed with paper and pencil, trying to capture it.

Today’s topic was going to be “drawing,” 

But something else happened.

As I began writing, my mind wandered, as it often does, down other paths. That same room—the one I first remembered as cozy and safe—began to bring back other memories. Not-so-pleasant ones. And I felt a small lurch in the pit of my stomach.

To avoid misleading the reader, I should explain.

My parents had a rocky marriage, to say the least. Many of their arguments took place in the middle of the night. For two little girls—eight and seven years old—it was frightening.

Perhaps that is why the memory of that simple snowy scene I drew so long ago holds more meaning than I ever realized-until today, when I began writing about it.  Something I was holding onto without knowing why.   

Maybe my initial memory was a quiet coping mechanism.  A way to focus on something calm and beautiful while at times the world around me felt unsafe.

Perhaps the drawing is a symbol of creating something worth saving—something my parents would proudly display on the refrigerator for years.

Not just a child’s drawing, but a small moment of peace, preserved.