When I was ten years old, the contents of my forehead burst onto our driveway, pieces of gravel burrowed into the cut like a million tiny moles.
i just keep rereading the entire piece, fascinated by the flow, intrigued and; like staring at a good piece of art, enjoying each brush stroke; I find myself not quite ready to move on.
it reminds me of a piece of my own in which I asked the Lord if He was amused by my flowery attempt to poetically pray.
no word is wasted, each carries such a weightiness. imagery carries throughout, suggestions fill in the blanks but the piece is not vague.
This makes me think of those dance videos I posted with my only commentary being, “am I allowed to enjoy these”. Raw energy, desire. frustration, sexual tension- things I’m supposed to be embarrassed talking about.
Things I’m not supposed to know anything about?
But I painted curse words on the walls and covered them up in a second coat
Don’t we all do that- maybe not physically, I wouldn’t dare, but in other ways it has happened. Doesn’t make it right or just or holy or any of that but it makes me human which is the only qualifying factor for accepting Jesus’ saving grace. Admit humanity, honor the humanity of others, realize that tears aren’t always bad and without her fall she wouldn’t have been able to witness how well her mother knows how to clean up- gain that respect, admiration.
makes for a great story