I, Nadia, live in a world of black, white, and subtle hints of grey. Mine is full of shading, edges, lines and smudges that all formed a picture. It's full of beauty and chaos and the poorest of poor along with the richest of rich. This shattered world can change into something beautiful. With this white paper in my hand, it can change into something worthwhile, and I love it. I love how an insignificant flower in a garden full of others can become the focus of attention, and how, with enough love, it could come to life on my paper. I can practically feel its life lift off the page and into my memory. I can't afford much, but this paper and pencil is all I need. I don't care that I have to work night and day to afford three meals a day for my sister and myself, and I don't care that the work is unjust and I don't care that I am a seven. Here, on this paper, everything is beautiful, no matter how unimportant.
Everyday of my life I draw in my journal. I draw the beauty in life, along with the pain. I have a picture for everything. I remember the day my sister, Odelia, took her first step, for those steps and the look of pure joy on her face was forever imprinted on a page in my journal. I remember the day Odelia planted her first flower in our little garden at home and how serious she looked. I remember David and his constant laughing. How he would laugh when eating at our poor excuse for a table and how he would make fun of the fat old men we worked for. How David, that annoyingly optimistic older brother of mine, would make up a song to the constant beat of the rain whenever our house leaked. I remember how he would pick up and spin Odelia, causing her curly, blond hair to fly out around her.
Though my journal also contains the sadness I've experienced. It holds the pictures too sad to be kept locked up within the confines of my brain. It holds the day David didn't come home from work. It holds the image of an employer taking out his anger on David over and over until my beautiful older brother's labored breaths stop completely. It held Odelia growing up without her older brother and it held my constant nightmares. Sometimes I want to throw my journal in the fire until the pages become burnt beyond recognition, but I don't because I know that the smoke that will come. I know that without the confines of my pages to keep the fear and sadness it would seep back into me, just like breathing in smoke. I know that without this journal I couldn't survive my life. I know of people who killed themselves just to escape the hunger and pain they had to endure, and I know of people who have given their lives away to drugs or alcohol for a few minutes of release. My mother ran away when I was only three because she couldn't take it and I can't do the same. I can't leave Odelia, I need to stay with her, I need to keep coming home.