A woman’s sixth and last child is born on Mother’s Day. The child carries water borne on the shoulders of the others, in pouches of cloth and leather, filtered through lives and days of the common, the unusual and the fantastic. The child dreams in metaphors, touches colors, speaks in lost tongues, waits in long hallways for affirmation and release
Love comes in waves. The child becomes an ocean. The ocean becomes a man. Fear falls away
There is a sign at the edge of a yard where generations of children have gathered. It’s written in one of the lost languages. It warns some and welcomes others. It describes a path through the woods at the edge of a quiet neighborhood. At the end of the path is another ocean, another color, a brand new swath of passion visited upon the unsuspecting
Yes, life is a stage, but the play is unfinished and the actors are still learning to speak. The curtain is suspended from planets passing overhead. The lion king is calling the light cues. The house is calling for an encore.