There once was a seed planted deep in the depths of my young mind by a wrinkly one whom I loved. She whispered and nurtured it throughout her days until she fell asleep and could no longer. At first, I thought it dead, but bit by bit it recovered from its dormant phase and sprouted ever so tiny tendrils of thoughts that stretched and wove from there to the paper.
Years flew by like a quick wind, sorely felt and never seen.
Once upon a pair of eyes found that tiny tidbit and coddled it. Those eyes saw something I didn't realize I put there and watered the seed a little more. The more water it received, the more it stirred and created until hundreds of tiny somethings flittered across my desk. With every kind eye, the seed mulled itself into a thousand bitty dandelion fluffs that then scattered themselves across every cranny of my inner being until it finally burst forth like its own being, leaving me surrendering and at its mercy.
I always thought childhood was the time for magic. It turns out magic matures as it's nurtured with age.