Conversations With Women (16 of 57)

We found them in the fields. Young bodies browning under June sun. Lazed and giggling. Air between them sweetened with the smell of dates. We hid in the palms. Ears tilted at lessons. Sometimes their laughter arrived with the breeze. To draft our dreams into the pilgrimage of clouds. They were, to us, like fallen dates. Golden forms, swollen with life. And the grass, were we. Upright appetites obsessed with the day. Longing to have it fall from the heavens and lie in our midst. One of them sees us and shouts, “What do ya’ll want?” We run away. Fast as we can. Because we don’t know the answer. Just the want. As if the grass can articulate why it longs for the sun.

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I am often asked what I do for a living; the simple answer is, I make stuff. I make stuff with my bare hands, with code, with colors, with words. I aid in making the people around me realize their optimum selves. I make my mother proud. I try to make my kids happy and encourage them to contribute more than they consume. I make sure self comes first. I make money. I make my own luck. I make a pretty solid french toast. And I do all that I can everyday to make the world better than it was yesterday.