Show me a girl who meets a boy. A boy who doesn’t know how to steal a look without being caught. A boy who can only ever be himself, who hasn’t ever learned how to hide, only seek. Together they chase the chance to be. Once caught, they stare at the truth within the other. And see themselves. Show me a girl, barely 20, with wide open eyes. A girl with dreams of what the whole world can be. Dreams blown up in bubbles floating across maybe skies. Fantasies of life, love and the stories that follow. Everybody waving hellos and nice to meet you’s. Show me a girl who begins the journey to finding all the bits inside her she never knew she had. The good shiny and new, the hard and ugly ones too. Motherhood scratches away to find the lot. The only idea she has, is in fact that she has no idea at all. Who let her in without papers, a passport? Show me a girl who fights with fists against the chest of change. Who can’t let go of the dreams in bubbles and the sweet hellos. Her life doesn’t float, or drift calmly down a river of hope. She has read the wrong books, and seen the wrong paintings. Where is her story? The one with every page filled with question after question. Yes, there are plenty of books on shelves with somebody elses answers. Show me the girl who knows. Just somehow knows, beyond the reach of reason that the boy by her side will always stay- she would sometimes wonder, why. Her face red and blotchy from trying and trying to let go of the could’s and what if’s and perhaps and shoulds, all mixed up and muddy. She sits in the puddle. And he with her, making make-belief pies. Show me a girl who is taught by yesterday’s voice and tomorrows chances. By the pieces of you you’re willing to share, and what you are not. Who stops still long enough to catch a glimpse of herself, her crazy self pacing well trodden steps while patience and peace slide in unnoticed. Her eyes stop squinting, searching and longing to see while he plants two feet, one in knowing, the other in being. Show me a girl who grows up while holding the hand of a boy. Pulling and pushing their way though each lesson; when to hold on and when to let go, in giving, taking, pleasing, asking, trying and creating. So the girl with her questions and the boy with his thoughts encourage each other to breathe and to be. And together they dare to look up to the sky, and see not bubbles, but floating mud pies. Show me the girl, And I will show you me. ~ Meg Lawton ~
Posted on: Sat, 07 Sep 2013 14:17:20 +0000
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