cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
As I sit down to write this essay, I am wiping the smeared mascara that coats the skin just below my eyelashes. The black smudges cover up the bags underneath my eyes, which reminds me of the layers of exhaustion most of my days have held. My eyes aren’t smudged from crying this time, but…
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You came, I knew that you would come You sang, my heart it woke up I’m not afraid, I see your face, I am alive –Jonathan David and Melissa Helser Are you done yet? I hurled the accusation at the sky. What more do you want? How much more can I take?
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