Today I look behind me and I see that I

have left in my wake a winding

trail of mistakes.

I think everyone in the world must

have a trail like mine and that

maybe these are what form

the outlines of countries

and continents—just

look over your shoulder and you can

see where your path meets hers,

somewhere around the

Cape of Good Hope.

And the mistakes we make are

little and some are big and some

change lives and some shape worlds

—mistakes like forgetting to

lock the door or forgetting to say

thank you or

driving drunk or

spilling coffee on the loveseat,

or cutting off too much hair or

waiting too long or

sleeping through the alarm or

knocking over mom's favorite

vase, the one with the

tiny green flowers that she got

from her mom on

her wedding day.

That's why the little boy always writes

in pencil and the girl carries white-out

and a band-aid and an apology

in her backpack.

But the mistakes I make,

I make in crayon,

mistakes I can't erase:

I turn messy gray blob into

flower, or star, or heart

somewhere in the middle of

the Atlantic Ocean—and

maybe that's where my trail

will touch yours,

next to the sand and the coral

and the jellyfish.

a.n. hi kyllex ;) yeah more crayon stuff, what can i say...