probable

photograph courtesy of RTP

i don't know where to start. my fingers are slower than my heart. i've never been an open book because i don't think the words can stand on their own. they need a wall to lean against, they need a note to swing from, a coffee table to prop them up. but what if i cut out a door and let them see what they could be when they walk far from me. what if?

i know we're not supposed to spill our guts because few are skilled with a needle and thread. even the most sincere smile and gentle grace doesn't always sew me back together. but sometimes it does...

it is for these sometimes that i say there's nothing prettier than joy, such a useful way to expend energy. there's nothing more miraculous than the healing of an open wound, the way the blood clots and protects and let's new skin comb over the old, it is fresh. there's nothing i wouldn't give to look people in the eye and tell them how highly i esteem them without letting my face flush or having to endure the nervous giggles of the stumbling recepient.

but if you're reading this, it is likely that i love you. it is more than likely--probable. i am grateful for your grace in my moments of insecurity and faltering. so often you take the role of the coffee table, for this precarious toddler with wobbling knees. It is because of you that the notes i find swell so, and I find them and i believe them when they breathe in me,--they are part of you. thank you for letting me fail and feel.

happy sewing, if you so choose.