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  I was made to do all these things and more and more, things I was not originally made for.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.