I sign another line. This time, I do not think about the hoops and swirls and dots. I don’t stop to break a stroke. My hand is stable and my eyes are dry. I flip the paper. I sign another line…
…It was a long time ago. When I was young, younger than you are now. I buried myself. I sobbed and sobbed like I had all the tears in the world to cry out, an endless amount. I wasted them. My whole body would tremble. I was a broken machine, rigged with parts that didn’t fit. Used parts discarded and trashed that were forced inside of me just to make me function. I was programmed to cook and to clean and to preform and to sing. I was made to do all these things and more and more, things I was not originally made for. A hammer can’t unscrew a screw and a broom can’t boil a pot. He never could figure this out and I was never quite good enough. He would bend my arms and bang my head. He would throw me around like a ragdoll. He would punch and kick and scream. Still, he couldn’t get me to work right. So I threw myself out. For a while, I tumbled on and on like ragweed. Nothing could catch me. Not even you. Until I stopped and decided to let the dying past lie down and die. I buried the memories in your backyard. I cleaned myself up with your soap and water. The built up dirt and grime all rinsed away. I am shiny and new. I glow on dark nights and light fires for you. I am Christmas morning and I want to be in an ornament with you…
…I hear the sound of my pen on paper. I lift up my hand only for a moment to notice I am about to sign the last line. I take a deep breath, put my pen to the end and I sign another line.