Just a stargazer

Here is a paragraph I wrote for class back in 2000. (Surprisingly, Mike and I are still on good terms. I love you, brother.)

I can remember my first box of 64 crayons, the ones with the sharpeners on the back. It must have been the most shining of my Christmas gifts that year. Every crayon, vibrant and pristine, represented a miniature work of art. They were my crayons. The ones a four-year-old could use to draw her dreams within the boundaries of cartoon character paper. The crayons would often cross those thick black lines; my clumsy hands failed in their attempt at perfection. It didn’t matter. The art was as flawless in my young eyes as the new box of crayons. At the bottom of each masterpiece, I could scribble my signature. It wasn’t scripted like your mother’s name when she signs field trip permission forms or a doctor’s when she writes out a prescription for a drug that will make you feel all better. It was four block letters each carved in different shades of orange and red. The crayons were virginal, innocent, unspoiled, and untouched–the perfect set of colors. The perfect way to capture the art in me. This gift was my treasure. I remember how excited I was to possess such an array of ambitions. I could for one moment be the envy of the other preschool children who only had a set of 8 crayons, or 24, or 48. I could leave my old set of broken, contaminated crayons behind. A distant memory. This new yellow box was joy itself. Inside the box was the closest I’ll ever come to touching a rainbow. I remember owning these pieces of happiness. And I remember the horror of finding my little brother joyously seated on the floor of the kitchen behind two small boxes: my brand new box of crayons and a bright green pencil box. For amusement he plucked each new, innocent crayon from its crib and proceeded to toss nearly every one of my 64 unused treasures into the pencil box…after he broke it in half.