Stories, history, biography.

What are these really?

Are they really an account of the life lived, sorrows past, and happiness gained?

Everyone has pieces.

Scars, marks, tears, patches, pebbles, stones, and glass

That build them.

My childhood was built by warm auburn stones, smooth and see-through, whimsical almost,

wrapped in sun.

Then ripped shutters, smashed homes, torn shingles, and death sucked me in

So tight, so hard, it pulled on me until I was at the bottom

Watching my life swirl around me; pictures, friends, my small stones, and my flowers all were

swallowed into deep darkness

I was tattered, in tiny shards of glass, floating away to a strange place, no choice on where I would

land.

 Then someone picked me up and saw all these shards and decided to burnt them and stick them to

me to build me up.

Sharp shards shaping.

I took control.

I was not going to be burnt again.

I will decide what I am made of.

I started to realize I had a choice.

I could pick my stones.

Never again will I be that tiny thing at the bottom of the deep darkness.

I will be made of hot crimson, sweet floral white, bright gold, outrageous orange.

And when you see me, sitting on a table, holding flowers, or nothing at all.

Maybe just sitting to be observed for my unique beauty.

You’ll know.

You’ll know my story.

When the sunlight shines, and my stones and glass gleam, you’ll see my story.

And I’ll see yours.