If Someone Should Ask Me, 'what Does

In The Photograph By My Bed My Mother Is Perpetually Smiling On Me. I Guess I Have Forgiven Us Both, Although Sometimes In The Night My Dreams Will Take Me Back To The Sadness, And I Have To Wake Up And Forgive Us Again.

I'll Write This All Down For You," I Said. "i'll Put It In A Story." I Don't Know If That's What He Wanted To Ask Me, But It's Something Everybody Wants--for Someone To See The Hurt Done To Them And Set It Down Like It Matters.

I Said, "if I Was A Negro Girl-" He Placed His Fingers Across My Lips So I Tasted His Saltiness. "we Can't Think Of Changing Our Skin," He Said. "change The World-that's How We Gotta Think."

At Night I Would Lie In Bed And Watch The Show, How Bees Squeezed Through The Cracks Of My Bedroom Wall And Flew Circles Around The Room, Making That Propeller Sound, A High-pitched Zzzzzz That Hummed Along My Skin. I Watched Their Wings Shining Like Bits Of Chrome In The Dark And Felt The Longing Build In My Chest. The Way Those Bees Flew, Not Even Looking For A Flower, Just Flying For The Feel Of The Wind, Split My Heart Down Its Seam.

When Compassion Wakes Up In Us, We Find Ourselves More Willing To Become Vulnerable, To Take The Risk Of Entering The Pain Of Others.