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My mother. Never an ordinary story.

Said a rain dance for Buddha began this journey. Whatever it actually was,

I am here.

What was I to be? It did not matter then.

She fouetté(d) and jeté(d) — forty-two weeks.

Created from dance, by the dancer, the performer, the spotlight, the stage, I was finally able to see the star of my show.

Like her, I was, but not completely. I created myself in time; however, she is always there.

It was a decent trip.

The feeling of relief was late but at least it came.

With it came dance. My heart was full. I smiled. I finally took it all in.

We danced.

Then I danced.

It was a problem. Dancing for attention. For glares. You stormed out. Spoke not another word until the morning.

Secure, are you not? Chant it a little louder so we can all hear. Security. Security. Security.

Your actions, misread.

I learned a lot. But this took far too long.

The one making the most judgement

knew the very least

about me

after

all.

I am she and I am fire and I am wind and rain and lightening and

you,

you are none of these things.

I am

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