Say What You Will, But You’re Never

One Open, One Closed. It Was No Wonder That The First Image That Came To Mind When I Thought Of Either Of My Sisters Was A Door. With Kirsten, It Was The Front One To Our House, Through Which She Was Always Coming In Or Out, Usually In Mid-sentence, A Gaggle Of Friends Trailing Behind Her. Whitney’s Was The One To Her Bedroom, Which She Preferred To Keep Shut Between Her And The Rest Of Us, Always.

And So We Stood There In The Kitchen, My Mother And I, Facing Off Over Everything That Had Built Up Since June, When I Was Willing To Hand Myself Over Free And Clear. Now I Needed Her To Return It All To Me, With The Faith That I Could Make My Own Way.

My Dad Is A Retired Shakespeare Professor, My Mother A Retired Classicist. Suffice To Say I Grew Up In A House Full Of Books, Where Reading Was Encouraged If Not Required.

Because It Is So Hard, In Any Life, To Believe In What You Can’t Fully Understand.

I Was Tired Of Hanging On, Taking The Torn Pieces To Make Something Whole With Them.