It’s as if I expose something new when I trail behind my words -picking up pieces and seamlessly fitting them together.
Recently I wrote about a dip in a road— not a new road or a flat road, but one that was pock marked, weathered, and tilted.
I unearthed a memory. Brushed it off and rotated it so I glimpsed all facets. The road dipped into a manmade holler and up again to flat ground. In that dip between I found myself. A short intimate moment. And when I read the words I wrote , looking at myself looking at me I followed my words to the end of that path.
I had found a missing puzzle piece.
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