This time of year has a tendency to present the perfect conditions for me to question everything about my life. It's not a great time for me to be alone, but it's when my instincts tell me to withdraw from having to be present anywhere where I have to put on a mask to hide what's going on inside.
Her shoulders are hunched as she takes each knock-kneed baby step toward the kitchenette, using her french-manicured and liver-spotted hands to steady herself on any furniture she passes along the way. I offer to help, but no. She won't allow it. I sit back and send an email to work that I'll be late this… Continue reading Ritual
Crying is the way my tears write prose on my face.
The good girl never wins.