weirtoes

They twitch–erratic, like wildfire–throughout sleep.
Perhaps the first sign along life’s barefoot and beaten path, no?
And you, the fool who thought yourself immune to the genetic tug of grandmothers…

What were you thinking?

Still, we don’t know for sure, some little voice of doubt and denial still mutters–foolishly hopeful as always.
Maybe the blood’s got some other story to tell…

 

Esther appeared in your dreams–matriarchal and earnest as always–sometime just before the stone was etched and wedged in place. Sitting in a circular scaffolding, precarious yet airy, surrounded by what you were sure were hundreds of other branch-roots–all preparing for a lively feast. Sitting and calling to you. You tried to make your way up to her, to find out what she was trying to say to you, climbing on legs of sheer faith against that familiar fear of falling. What did she want to say to you?

 

They twitch–erratic, like branchfires–throughout life.
You weren’t always paying attention, and when you were, it was easier to just be more brave and hope fortune will favor you.

They twitch–erratic, like signal flares–for a reason, don’t they? Fracking weirtoes! (I want to dig you in the beach again like a brave fortunate fool.)

 

 

 

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