I Carry (#85)

Everyday I leave the house with a stone on my chest and bags in my hand. It's a funny way to go places, with stones on your chest and bags in your hands. Heavy. But I don't mind it too much. Sometimes I feel as if the weight defines me. Weight lets you know that you're there, that you're alive. I need to feel alive.

The stone wasn't always there. It's a recent accoutrement from the most fashionable store in Paris-- Not really. But that's what people think when they see the mist in my eye. Oh she's a poet. That one's deep.

I'm not really.

It seems as if we spend our whole lives playing dodgeball. Only, the balls we're playing with are stones that stick to your chest and knock the wind straight out of you. They blindside you. This one blindsided me.

You know, I've always wanted my father's necklace. It was a necklace he never took off and that I saw him wear daily, ever since I can remember. It's a simple cross made of brown metal or maybe wood, hanging by leather cords. It's different though. It has three bars instead of just one, and the bottom bar is small and slanty.

I never got that cross. He gave me a stone instead.