No trace remains of that day of clay and crayons of chalk and chewing gum, of sweaty palms and swollen self-consciousness No trace except for two dry red prints set on stark white parchment, silently declaring an intention to witness, and better still, to be witnessed Stashed away beneath bobbins and musty magazines, ten delicate digits bided lonely decades, patient and hopeful for a truth that as yet may never rise The gift of innocent identity presses gently against our stale and cowardly habit, muffled testimony with utter disregard for self-incrimination Fear not to see and speak, then, those generous words, if only plain to the quiet ferns nearby, so that we finally know their genius all too well: "I have always known"
Dani's Healing 