I've been messing about with ideas for the title of my NaNoWriMo story on and off for the last twenty four hours. I haven't settled on anything yet, but I thought I'd throw one option out as a writing prompt because... well, why not?
So. What can you do with: lessons in the dust.
The attic was cold and poorly lit
By weak sunlight through a window slit;
The dust must have been three inches thick.
"Let's get what we need and be gone quick,"
I told my father but he hushed me -
He was searching for a memory
And he was in no hurry.
After what felt like hours had passed,
My patience and humor fading fast,
He found the box he was looking for
And he spread its contents on the floor.
"This is the village I grew up in,"
He said softly with an empty grin;
I felt goosebumps on my skin.
"Why haven't you shown me this before?"
I asked, examining crumbling stores.
He was silent for a long, long time.
"This is why I still value a dime,"
He sighed at last and got to his feet.
Then he said the words I oft repeat:
"We can't all be born elite."