I see your face before me--barely recognizable. Not because of pen scratchings, as some might think. No, I am surprised by how far we have drifted apart--in still waters. My spirit. Your body--of letters, of words.
Not a divorce. Not bitter. Not amicable. Just an imperceptible drifting in still waters.
Not an annulment. Our partnership. I seek no clean break. No erasure. I seek no space for a new bridegroom.
I seek not sole custody of our children. Our children. Conceptions of my spirit borne of your fingers, --of your hands.
I protect our creatures--our creations--with block printing. I intend no defensiveness. Yet, no one can take me past my blind spot.
Tell me. Show me. Your handwriting. Others' handwriting.
Where does legibility lie? Where does readability rest?
I must reconcile with you. I must revel in time perched on my bed with pen in hand, and paper before me. I know how to type. I love touching keys. Yet, handwriting touches more than my hands--he touches my spirit. He is more than an "it," he is a "he."
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