My mother named me Grace. I'm trying to figure out what that means.
It has to be an inside joke she has with God, considering
I am the least graceful person on the planet.
I find myself constantly tripping over my ego and pride.
I spill my trust on other people's dirty floors,
Just to be washed away later.
I am always wearing my heart on my sleeve and then doing things like
Bumping into people who have a tendency to look right through me.
Sometimes it feels like my hands are too small for my body,
Because as much as I try to help my fists aren't strong enough
To hold the weight.
They crack and crumble, every time.
But maybe grace isn't just a fluidity you carry with you.
Maybe it's choosing to get back up when you've fallen
For the millionth time.
Maybe it's spilling yourself out over and over again
Until you can't anymore.
Maybe it's continually opening your hands and trusting them
No matter their track record.
My mother named me Grace.
I'm still trying to figure out what that means.

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