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I don’t know who I am,
There’s little that I can
Fully recognize. . . .
Her voice sounded fragile, like fine crystal that might break at any moment, but each note was true and clear. There weren’t any backup singers or elaborate instrumentation; just the gentle plinkity-plank of a piano.
But I’m taking small steps,
’Cause I don’t know where I’m going.
I’m taking small steps
And I don’t know what to say.
Small steps,
Trying to pull myself together,
And maybe I’ll discover
A clue along the way. . . .
Armpit smiled despite the lump in his throat.
Just to make it through the day and not to get hurt,
Seems about the best that I can hope.
Like coffee stains splattered on your sweatshirt,
There isn’t any pattern.
Everything’s uncertain.
It’s difficult to cope. . . .
The lump in his throat turned into tears.
But I’m taking small steps,
’Cause I don’t know where I’m going.
I’m taking small steps,
And I’ve forgotten how to play.
Small steps,
Trying to pull myself together,
And maybe I’ll discover,
A clue along the way. . . .
The coffee stains were still on his sweatshirt. His mother had tried washing them out, but they were permanently set.
And if someday my small steps bring me near you,
