a gust of wind. leaves eddy around me.
wait, no. can you believe it? they're hundred dollar bills. flying at me from all sides. i'm in a tornado of them. oxygen inflates my lungs to bursting. my hair whips in my eyes. i grab and grasp and stuff and clutch -- how much can i hoard before time runs out? i spin and leap, almost ridiculous. a frantic ballet. but -- don't laugh. you would too, i know it.
the wind dies. the paper settles to the ground and disappears. anything i'm holding remains material.
i unfold a wrinkled bill. it's not money after all. but this one says: healthy children. and that one says: a supportive spouse (who changes diapers and puts kids to bed and kisses you goodnight no matter what). and here: job(s) you like. and on and on: a home. friends who have your back (even from a thousand miles away). sisters who are friends and parents who still think you can reach the moon. and there's more: yoga. morning walks. sunrises. food. hot showers. words to read and write. dreams. and finally: anything you want, really.
I feel like I should put one back. I've been too greedy.
But no. I can't. I want it all. I clutch it all to my chest. I won't let it drop. Not one single thing. I am so so rich it hurts.
