Words...

Have you ever just studied the way someone’s hair falls? I have.  There’s a way that while the hair is one, each strand is different.  Some stick together, going with the flow while there are always those strands that stand alone.

I’m challenging myself over the next year to write more. Words are powerful and while I doubt I’ll ever be good enough to publish... There is something about writing what is on your mind that adds a beauty to the idea of using words.

Hope filled her, the road meant people. People meant help. Help meant freedom.  But until there were people, she had to keep running. Scrabbling back onto her feet, she gave it all she had left. The thud of her foot hitting the road comforted her. Every step shredded her bare feet, but she pressed on. She had to. She couldn’t stop.

Words are the easiest things to use and forget about. How many words do we mutter a day without really thinking about what we say or why we say them? In a story every word has to have a reason or you scrap it. In life words and just thrown about meaninglessly.

The walk had been his suggestion, he had said he missed her; missed her smile, her laugh, her hugs and her friendship.  She had waited for this, because when she had tried to rekindle the lost friendship, nothing had worked.

Its the sentence we say that makes our character. It the words we let leave our leave our mouths that people remember. Actions speak, don’t get me wrong. But words are the real speakers.

As we sat there, together as one; I watched the way his fingers interlocked into mine. I studied as he slowly moved his thumb to play with mine. The dance our fingers did around each other, changing from being held to being interlocking was all I could focus on. I had never seen anything quite like it. Never felt anything similar.

You may remember holding someone’s hand and what it felt like to have your fingers interlinked with theirs, writing it down and writing what you felt makes it a stronger memory.

Grandma’s hand was soft for the most, but she had her calluses. On the tip of each finger, right at the top, they sat there built up after years of harp. Slipping my hand further into hers I looked up and smiled at her. Her thumb slowly made circles on the back of my hand, warming it up on the frosted morning as we ventured to feed the ducks. Here I was safe. Here I was loved.

Words matter. What am I going to say? What am I going to write?

My thoughts flashed back to the last time I had seen her. 7 years ago. She had embraced me like her brother. At that stage I could have been. We had aged together. She was the only one who really could try and understand me. She was the only one who knew where my life had started.

Make your words count.