My Mother
If I could taste the memory of my mother. She’d taste like spring air, dirt and cut grass. Like snow and smoke and chocolate. She would taste the way a warm blanket feels. When you warm cold fingers by the heat of the radiator.
The Greatness opened its eyes, and saw darkness. And the Greatness was alone.
So the Greatness thought of a loom, and in that moment, the first loom was created.