A young boy once asked me, "ma'am, pardon my sharp tongue but why do you speak in ramblings ( so aimlessly, so to yourself.)?
To which I replied:
Boy, once I was a child like you - but with crooked teeth and a tongue that chased words into my jean-pockets as if those words were coins I found my palms reaching into, to later, be tossed onto a tombstone.
I was told the world is like a piggy bank in my room, and that every penny counted; no matter how poor I may seemed, that if I went to the store and paid my chips with a bag full of cents, my money still mattered.
Have you ever seen a tombstone? Those graves in the cemetery almost like sanctuaries where people sleep for eternity, never to rise even if dawn greets them with open arms? I have. They have a sign at the entrance gate that says, "Do not disturb."
Yet everyone seem to cry and mourn on their knees as if pleading for one last sign that they are alive... but that seems to not disturb them. They rest. They take their eternal slumber seriously. Nothing one ever does will ever grab their attention so they'll awake and scream, "don't you see that I am sleeping?" Like the times a neighbor disturbed his sister with screams days before she passed away, and she awoke only to yell at him "shut up, don't you see I am taking a nap," yet after she went to heaven, my neighbor sobbed, cried, screamed at her grave only to get a reply from a stone ( that'll he forever have engraved in his heart) "She rests in Peace."
I guess, Boy...
I never thought about it, but I am much like death where my body is a cemetery and my words are coins I enshrine into my pockets so no one will ever be disturbed by what I say...
