I’m not destined to be a good tiler of walls. A nice woman visited me yesterday. She said it looks like I have all the tools needed for the job and she was correct. But it’s practice that makes one a good tiler of walls and practice is not something I intend to do. So I’ll accept my undulating grout lines and look upon them as if I’m dreaming down country roads. In and out of square acres of soy and corn. And it makes me ponder over what I am good at… how the ink flows as naturally as a cooling summer breeze. I stop for it. I wear it on my face. I breathe. Ponce de Leon searched for the fountain of youth, as the legend goes. I’m searching for more Time. I need more. My babies need me too. Papa! I cannot take my time from them. When they are delivered back to me at midday their faces light with ecstasy and they run the young one with her waddle-sprint and the older one bursting to tell me her stories. Like I am bursting to tell my stories. But I put my stories aside and swoop down to receive my girls (my babies!) and I take one in each arm and twirl them against me and they laugh and smile and before they’ve touched back down to the ground they’re showing me the many treasures they’ve discovered since breakfast clutched into tiny fists. I need more TIME. For my stories. Or maybe within this restaurant the careful and concentrated slicing of fish some sort of miracle exists—And he commanded the multitude to sit down on the grass, and took the five loaves, and the two fishes, and looking up to heaven, he blessed, and brake, and gave the loaves to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude. And they did all eat, and were filled: and they took up the fragments that remained twelve baskets full (KJV Matthew 14:19-20). And shortly after the five thousand men and all the women and children had eaten Jesus went up into the mountain to pray alone and when he returned in the middle of the darkness night the ship with his disciples had been tossed into the middle of the violent sea and he walked to it. He walked on water. And I sit here amongst battered furniture and broken-down and greasy kitchen equipment and orange walls littered with remnants of someone else’s memories and buried inside me I scream and I scream and I scream looking up to heaven I WANT TO WALK ON WATER because I wish to have turned five loaves and two fishes into five thousand. And I think of TIME. And that Jesus the prophet king the Christian God was both man and God. And aren’t we all?
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..as the woman who made HIM.