Some receive it as a gift, like a child— wrapped in festive tissue paper, encased in sturdy (yet velvety) bows, delivered in public, out in the open, for all to see. Others toy with it as a string, like a kitten— dangling from above by an unseen hand, dancing from side to side (albeit erratically), enticing the playfulness from within, out, for all to see. I walk behind it as an enigma, like a disciple— examining its angles and edges from afar, imagining (fancying, even) the mechanisms on the inside, yearning to clasp it in my hands, out in the open, for all to see.
Reflections on language, learning, and loss in paltry poetry and prose