The early spring breeze was running through the streets. Suffuse lights, velvet curtains, and half empty shining glasses. Murmurs of people all around. I was seven years old. The room was filled by a warm smell of many things together. The kind you can only discover into a restaurant. It tastes of feelings more than food. Like “here you are safe”, “here your empty stomach will be filled and cared for”, “here you are not alone”.

 

I was silent. I’ve never been a loquacious person. I’m rather the one who listen, the one who treasures things inside. But there was something different haunting my mind that evening. I couldn’t detect what it was. A pressing tangle swinging from my chest to my ears. The waitress came for the bill, “Thank you for dining with us.”

 

I asked my father for a piece of paper. He gave me the restaurant’s receipt. I turned it and wrote on its white back. The tangle unravelled. Words about hearts and how those beat for the ones they love, freedom, and happiness formed few lines. I remember my father reading it in silence and then giving me a deep stare. I had written my first poem.