What is it like, trying to find the words to tell a story?
It’s like waiting at the edge of the trees, watching for deer. You wait even though you only hope they will come: you have no promise.
All you have is patience and a handful of bread.
You wait for days and nights until it feels like the grass is growing right up through your shoes, bones turning to roots reaching down for a deeper anchor, moss trailing from your fingertips.
Moss on your nose.
But then they come, out of nowhere, out of nothing, they step out of the trees and the ache in your chest eases.
You were never waiting for nothing.
I need to remember this: I have the patience of trees.
I can wait until my bones turn to moss, if I have to.
I don’t always have to work so hard.
Sometimes the best thing to do is nothing at all.
Sometimes the best thing to do is to sit quiet and watch the trees.
I know how to wait.