I am not
awe-inspiring
like a mountain or an ocean.
I am not
raw power,
a grand dream.
I am subtle magic.
I unfold
slowly,
curling around you like
smoke tendrils.
I am the
quiet magic
in the charm of a small town
in the summer.
Or a still lake,
the sunlight reflecting,
sparkling, glittering.
I will not turn your world upside down,
I will wade through it,
bathe in it,
let it coat me so that I know
the deepest
parts
of
you.
-Kat
About the Creator
Kat S.
Learning to heal myself one written word at a time.
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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