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Hands
April 19, 2008In one of our very, very rare jaunts to the mall, I asked him: "Why do you walk the way you do? Always a little to the front of me, never beside."
"I don’t know. Maybe it’s because you’re so short and small, and I hate the idea of you having to push your way through a crowd."
"So, you’re my bulldozer, in a manner of speaking, and you keep me safe by walking in front of me while you hold on to my hand?"
He laughed. "I could think of better nouns than bulldozer, but yeah, I suppose I’m being a bulldozer that way."
I smiled at him as a beautiful thought crossed my mind.
If I ever find the patience to write a story (and that would take a lot of doing because I am the most impatient person I know), one would have this line:
The boy forges his way through the crowd, his body straight and lean like an arrow. He is hard and cynical, and it shows in his eyes. What little softness he has in him lay in the hand he had slipped behind to curl protectively around hers.
She follows him, her feet nimble and sure, her eyes trusting. She needs no map, no compass. She does not need eyes, even. Her whole world walks
in front of her, and he holds her heart -firmly and tenderly- in his young, slender hand.
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oh you write so wonderfully. this is so sweet. super.
Posted by coriander at April 24, 2008, 7:46 pm