20 4 / 2012
If I were the daughter of a carpenter, perhaps reading a book would’ve been more entrancing. Things always taste relishingly good when worked hard for, they say. Maybe I’d make the best of choices because my budget is limited. Maybe I’d make my own shelf and my books would be proud. I would be more inspired and teaching myself things would be more often.
“Father, please,” I would say, “help me build a tree house.”
Maybe I’d grow up to value time as required, maybe birds that would have been trapped among the branches appreciate my feeble hands, more than humans ever will. My elbows would be cut and bruised more intensly than how narrow my chest feels now. Instead of swaying my fingers fruitlessly when in darkness, I’d sway my whole body in the moonlight. I thank God for whatever He provides. But maybe I would almost die because of a falling roof, instead of almost dying because of a starving soul.