A lone tear trickles but she pleads and her mother reads on. She is enraptured as words drip from her tongue. She is more coordinated than her mother but more likely to fall.
Words uttered don’t hold their shape, having as they do, the life expectancy of spun sugar melting on the tongue. This sharing of their brief existence is unclothed by other concerns, forgetful of formless invitations.
These written words have the storage properties of an airtight container. They are always there even if some are placed on ice from time to time. Their style is every wardrobe’s nightmare.
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