I like to think I am a concrete rose, delicate in appearance but solid in substance. My rain boots are ballet slippers, my stumbles and tumbles are pirouettes.
Am I not the funniest person you know? Is my laugh not as loud as one hundred honking geese about to take flight, their wings flapping like the beat of a bass drum.
Sometimes on my walks, I pick up small pebbles and hold them in my clenched fist, the smooth pieces leaving marks in my palms. Each impression is like the remnants of tea in the bottom of a stoneware mug.
I will carry all the pebbles in my pocket and at first sight of a pond, I will chuck them one by one into the water. The ripples will spread and then fade and I will say a silent prayer.
Bless this bliss, bless the love, and bless the thousand stars spread at my feet.
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