give me your palm. the old woman said,
looking up at me, her face scarred and burnt.
she had lived through both world wars,
buried two of her sons, and lived
to tell about it. she was the true hero, i thought.
she was, not me, this floundering child
who had sat across from her since i was ten.
she had shown me the stars, sewn autumn
inside the lining of my shabby jeans.
she had a way with things like that. once,
she captured the sun in her crystal ball and
let it blind me, said it was good for the soul.
i agreed, only after she had
restored my eyes and left me there.

she left me.
i handed her
my wadded up five dollar bill

give me your palm, she said.
my classmate drudgingly
sure of my sudden fate. she,
the outcast of the school, with her mused
hair and disgruntled looks.
she, the one the rest spit upon and
ridiculed because she was different;
refusing live any other way.
she was the true hero, i thought.
she was, not me, not the
spineless coward who couldn't stick up for her.
i couldn't find my vocal chords.
i had lost them somewhere by the cafeteria,
somewhere near her stolen bookbag.

give me your palm, she said,
and placed hers over mine
after i consented she leaned, whispering:
you're not as wayward as you think.
your roadmap is just around the bend,
hiding, behind your dreams.
breathe them awake...

i dare you.

10/09/2003

Author's Note: okay. i have no ending to this. so i'm posting it anyway and hopefully will come up with something sometime soon. topic given by the ever wonderful and encouraging krista brock. many thanks to her, along the way.

Posted on 10/09/2003
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