…and a shovel, who sometimes doesn’t realise the strength of her words.
Always thinking that like her punches of frustration in the 2am torchlight, the words written in ink and yelled with a broken voice just floated off in to the void. No one would listen to a 25 year old that had only just walked out the door of her family home. Closing the door, weighed down with boxes full of memories, motivation and a few emergency packs of plucky courage.
Someone was listening though… that’s it someone was and that’s all she needed to know. That her words didn’t just go pop like that weasel, they traveled in bubbles on a summer breeze, reflecting colours like spilled petrol in the eyes of readers around the world.
Quite baffling to a 1/4 century girl.
A rather small girl in comparison to the world around her.
One just starting to understand how hard hits from reality can be. How they can knock the wind out of you or pull the chair from under your feet just as you were about to reach the top shelf. She’d been reaching for so long and finally thought she’s brushed what she desired with her fingers. Her tiny fingers, the ones with bitten nails, ones that can only just stretch over an octave.
Nails free from polish and showing signs of her childhood. Yes country life was buried under those broken nails, the dust and dirt of many summers adventures still trapped; there’s no soap strong enough to take it away.
Not that she’s want that anyway.
It makes her feel grounded, safe and certain that she can do anything, reach any height; like the tree she climbed when she was 8 or the wall she conquered on a year 7 trip.
Yes this little dendrophile is making her way, slowly but surely.