When I was

When I was five, did I dream of being a willow that would bend, that would crumple beneath the storm. Did I hope to fling my dreams to the wind. When I was ten, did I think that every face would smile at me, nod and say, yes. That answer is correct. You win the prize, you are my friend, you are my love.

When I was fifteen, did I want every young man to stop and stare, lick his lips and say my name. To cry for me at night and stand in silence in the day.

When I was twenty, did I hope to train my brush to capture light, to conjure color and form. Did I think I could paint a world where I would fit in. When I was twenty-five, were my fingers training to write a story that would make readers weep, cause them to stay awake wondering. What would happen next. What.

When I was thirty, did my weary heart skip a beat, did I stumble when I walked.

Did I sin, did I stop being human.

When I was thirty-five, did I discover love, did I discover God. As if He had been hidden. In the midst of a universe that belonged to Him.

When I was forty, did my arms refuse to obey, did the pictures go away. Did my passion melt and change. When I was forty-five, did the stories come unbidden. Crows that screamed at night. Tell my tale. Tell. When I was fifty, was I hoping then that black would marry white and my near-forgotten dreams might come true. Did I wait. Did I. Wait.

Crows that screamed at night. Did I dream of being a willow that would bend. Beneath the storm, my dreams in the wind. Did I think I could paint a world. Where I could fit in.

Did I wait. Did I. Wait.

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