Tea cups in the rain. Cupcakes behind the baker's glass. Goldfish circling, orange and black. Colored bottles on an open window sill. New pencils in their packets like a neatly boxed rainbows.
Little things that mean nothing.
This is where the story sparks.
In moments too small to even capture, that's where my writing grows.
Story flesh you aren't destroyed, even inside my Green House of Grief. Pain, a hot bed of healing.
The feet that once stamped in puddles without gumboots, the back flip that didn't land well and the eyes with blueness dripping, became the dew on my early morning grass. I lived under the sadness, but emerged with words. Fern fronds. Life. Even under the rocks carpeted with moss.
Story Flesh, apart of who I am. Even when I didn't know her. Even in the tears. Alive, over, under and beside me. Nice to finally see. The Story flesh; I always hoped I had.
A second skin, a first skin.
What about you? What grows on you and in you? Do you have Story Flesh?