The Day Words Found Me

I remember exactly when it happened.

I was ten. The eve of International Women's Day, a holiday that, in the Soviet Union, turned cities briefly floral. Bouquets everywhere. Women smiling under armfuls of tulips. A day off. A celebration.

I wanted to give my mother something of my own. Drawing was out of the question. I knew my limits early: it was the only subject where I earned a B, surrounded by a sea of As. Handicrafts didn't cooperate with me either; glue, scissors, and patience all failed to obey. So I sat there, empty-handed, thinking about the next day.

And then a sentence arrived.

Not slowly. Not cautiously. Just… there.

Another followed. Then another.

Within minutes, a poem stood before me, fully formed, as if it had been waiting. I froze. Then I hurried, paper, pen, afraid the words might vanish if I didn't catch them. By the end, I knew: this was it. This was the gift.

I folded a piece of paper into a card, drew a rose on the front, and wrote my poem inside.

I don't remember my mother's face the next morning. I know she was pleased. But what I remember vividly came later.

At her workplace, there was a small contest: women brought the gifts their children had made for them. Drawings. Crafts. Paper flowers. My mother brought my card.

In the evening, she came home with a bag of candies, the prize for first place.

That bag did something important. It locked the door behind me. Not praise, not encouragement — evidence. Something in me worked differently. Something quiet but reliable had announced itself.

The miracle never left.

During hard years, I earned money writing poems for anniversaries and weddings. In the 2010s, decades of verses finally gathered themselves into a book. Even now, poems arrive the same way they always have: a thought, a line, another, and suddenly the glass is full. I might polish later. Usually, barely.

I've always admired composers. Music feels like sorcery to me. But sometimes I wonder if it comes to them the same way, not built, not forced, just received and written down before it escapes. Maybe painters know this too.

Maybe we're not inventors at all. Maybe we're channels.

Talent doesn't always announce itself loudly. Sometimes it arrives as a sentence.

Or a melody. Or a line you're afraid to lose.

Everyone has something like this, not identical, not comparable, but real. The work isn't to compete. The work is to notice when it shows up, and have the courage to say,

Yes, this is mine.

With intention,

Nadia Granski