The first things I wrote were hard. Touching the words would give you splinters. Tumbleweeds blew through. Then the locusts came.
Later everything softened. Think of watercolor. The words became porous. I became that way too. It wasn't like things were necessarily better. But I did have a bigger bank of words and colors for it - for you.
I thought about doing some new writing about what you said and what happened. I didn't. Not everything needs to be written down.
Now you're wondering if it's you. The question hangs out there between us. That's fair. If I were you I'd do that too.
In the end, it doesn't matter. Not really. It is about somebody. But in a way it could be about anyone.
From the archives:
The Hatchet Job
No comments:
Post a Comment