Elizabeph

Each day is its own microstep-- since I woke from my mother's womb, I longed to mimic new words, trammel the sound until it blossomed like a newborn, and oh how I birthed stories--told them how I wanted the author's sacrosanct title once I've grown. But growing meant learning the practice of citizens and their due contribution: beast-slaying nature of please, thank you, an apology: sincere or not. Then there is time--the first breath of nine, exhalation of five, the suffocating mandate of overtime. You grow used to it: the cyclical disappearance of parents, pervasive need of sleep, a home- cooked meal's gradual transmogrific