Listening for the Whisper

When people learn pieces of my story, they often say, “You ought to write a book.”

I used to laugh it off. Sure, I’d say — not taking it seriously, and then moving on. Life was already busy, full of turns I hadn’t predicted and places I never expected to land.

Recently, I felt a soft tap on my shoulder. Almost nothing. A whisper, really.

I realized I had something to say. Not because it was extraordinary, but because it was lived.

I’ve begun writing my memoir now, and the road has surprised me. Names return. Scenes surface. Lessons I thought I’d absorbed quietly insist on being examined again. Mistakes I made look different when I sit with them long enough to write them down.

I write every day.

Each morning I wake up with a quiet curiosity — not about where the book is going, but about where I will go that day. Memory, like paint, has its own way of revealing what’s underneath.