What Do You Do With All This

One Day When I Was Fourteen, I Told Charlie That I Hated Mother. “don’t Hate Her, Jo,” He Told Me. “feel Sorry For Her. She’s Not Near As Smart As You. She Wasn’t Born With Your Compass, So She Wanders Around, Bumping Into All Sorts Of Walls. That’s Sad.” I Understood What He Meant, And It Made Me See Mother Differently. But Wasn’t There Some Sort Of Rule That Said Parents Had To Be Smarter Than Their Kids? It Didn’t Seem Fair.

I Leapt Eagerly Into Books. The Characters’ Lives Were So Much More Interesting Than The Lonely Heartbeat Of My Own.

Willie Said Normal Was Boring And That I Should Be Grateful That I Had A Touch Of Spice. She Said No One Cared About Boring People, And When They Died, They Were Forgotten, Like Something That Slips Behind The Dresser.

You Like Me, Josie Moraine. You Just Don't Know It Yet.

If I Poured All The Lies I Had Told Into The Mississippi, The River Would Rise And Flood The City.