He always thought he was strong. To look at him, you would think his assumption right. He could carry his mother’s burdens and fight his father’s fights. At ten years, during an autumn afternoon, Tom Nelson from 43b bet he couldn’t bite a nail in two. Hollerin’ foul when he did. So he saw her, he puffed his chest and braced his arms to hold her like he held all the other things he had with his strength.
But to hold her gaze.
To hold it, a cluster of cells looking at cell clusters, a feat far too steep. His heart, simply weak.
And why must all love stories have a epic meetings of sorts? The man be strength and woman swooning rendered knee weak. Why not just eyes meeting eye thus making heart beat with heart. Why a antidote or a story that sprouts the oohs and ahhs? Why not admittances of weakness, admittance of a wound? Is not a wound a quicker entrance for unpleasant things? So if perhaps a pleasant thing entered weakness such as his heart, make for strength?
Let it be seen as his heart a wound and she the light.
Created: Jul 17, 2010Document Media