The Painted Girl & Her Mom

I see the curve of her neck and I think about how warm it must feel to touch her. I wonder if it hurts to carry all of her weight at the base of it; how she must quiet all of the ache and pain by rubbing her hands over and over it again and again; how it never goes away. I remember how there's just never enough time to tell all of the people we know how much we love them. We never go where we really want to go. We struggle quick and hard against all of the things that roll down against us. We never stop hurting. If there's still time, if there's just enough time, I wonder if we would do them.

What Inspires Us to Be

When I pick up a rock, smooth and ivory white, I like to turn it on its back and feel its wet, dark underbelly. I like to brush off the wetness and find its grooves, and wonder about how much time and weight must have laid upon it. I like to think about how unappreciated the dark hidden underbelly must have felt as it lay quietly underneath, feeling the weight of the transformation slowly take shape over space and time. I wonder if it mourned what it used to be, feeling its original self slough off layer by layer, pushing heavier and heavier down into the deepest part of itself; or if instead it waited patiently, nervous and excited for its beautiful butterfly self to be revealed. Did it save a remnant of what it used to be, locked away somewhere deep down inside so it can visit itself every once in a while? Is it wonderful to be saved or sad to be kept away like a deep, dark, and lurking secret?