Photo credit: Bread! Flikr, Creative Commons
We sit at a table round and old, the edges burnished by
years of reaching deep and sidling close. It was bought by my parents, this
table, when their love was still young and the road less littered. The years
and their offerings, they have left their mark and there are scars to remind us
all. But when I run my hand across the polished top, I smile at the way that my
fingers glide and dance.
We are a motley crew, this gathering of souls, and yet we
are all cut from the same cloth. Our blood runs thick with crooked noses and
broad shoulders, almond-shaped eyes and cowlicked hair but despite the familiar
echoes, I sometimes feel as if I am looking into the faces of strangers.
For aren’t
we all just stories draped in flesh and can’t it take years to peel back the
layers that mask our true forms?
Some of our tales have never even been
whispered but yet, they blow silent through cracks, wanting to be heard. It is
their muteness that rings loudest.
We’ve all come hungry...
I am humbled and very excited to be joining
SheLoves Magazine as a contributing writer today.
You can read the rest of my piece here at the
So lovely and poetic.
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