Soup, and it’s dripping down her chin and I wipe it as a mother would her baby—only I’m her baby, and where are her pills? Lined up neat by my father in a green tray, I find the ones for Lunch and she cannot swallow, and it’s one of those days. She’s staring at a robin pecking birdseed outside the kitchen window and her head is bobbing, eyes as blue as her sweater and her pants.
(join me over at The High Calling for the rest of this story? and if you feel inspired, leave a comment there? thank you…)
1. link up a post (old or new) that you feel is ‘broken’ or ‘imperfect’ or somehow redemptive
2. put the ‘imperfect prose’ button at the bottom of your post, so others can find their way back here (see button code in right-hand column of my blog)
3. read other’s offerings, and encourage them!
Image by Kelly Sauer. (http://www.kellysauer.com/) Used with permission.