December 21, 2011
She was still.
"I spy with my little eye something white."
Her weary eyes, still full of life, darted around.
Though the skin around her eyes was eroded and forlorn.
Slanted like unsure lips.
A rock shelf in the desert,
aged with crevasses.
I always wondered why everything she touched shook.
Her hands were like chicken wire.
Never barbed though.
Just shaky.
I stared at this small body before me.
Her house smelled of molasses and The Holy Bible.
I didn't understand why they were so worried.
I just saw a small body, hiding a strong, rooted woman.
She opened her cracked lips, glazed with strawberry lipstick.
"What is it?"
A crescent moon appeared on her face.
"Your white hair."
I became a full moon.
And she laughed.

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