In My 20s, I Railed Against Anything

Inside The Snow Globe On My Father's Desk, There Was A Penguin Wearing A Red-and-white-striped Scarf. When I Was Little My Father Would Pull Me Into His Lap And Reach For The Snow Globe. He Would Turn It Over, Letting All The Snow Collect On The Top, Then Quickly Invert It. The Two Of Us Watched The Snow Fall Gently Around The Penguin. The Penguin Was Alone In There, I Thought, And I Worried For Him. When I Told My Father This, He Said, "don't Worry, Susie; He Has A Nice Life. He's Trapped In A Perfect World.

Well, As My Dad Would Say, It Means She’s Out Of This Shithole.

I'm Not A Slash-and-burn Kind, And I'm Also Not A Posterity Kind. They Just Kind Of Exist On My Hard Drive. It's Like Walking Down The Street - What You Leave Behind Is Still There, Even If You Never Go Back And Revisit It.

I Knew Something As I Watched: Almost Everyone Was Saying Goodbye To Me. I Was Becoming One Of The Many Little-girl-losts. They Would Go Back To Their Homes And Put Me To Rest, A Letter From The Past Never To Be Reopened Or Reread. And I Could Say Goodbye To Them, Wish Them Well, Bless Them Somehow For Their Good Thoughts. A Handshake In The Street, A Dropped Item Picked Up And Retrieved And Handed Back, Or A Friendly Wave From The Distant Window, A Nod, A Smile, A Moment When The Eyes Lock Over The Antics Of A Child.

I Wish You All A Long And Happy Life