Marcy wishes she had a do-over. She misses the days when anything seemed possible, the days when the future stretched out like a second-grade summer, and failure felt temporary. Marcy is sitting at the kitchen table, nursing her second cup of half-caff, and wondering what happened to her life, to her dreams, to her husband. It was like she missed her bus, and the next one never came.
Marcy got up from her perch and went to get dressed for another day of waiting tables, and of counting hours until she could come home again. As she pulled her hair back into a low ponytail, the photos taped to her bedroom mirror caught her eye. They were the smiling faces of dead relatives. They were her company.
Each person who loved her and died made the world a little dimmer. She tries to find new lights, but they never turn on. They just flicker and fade to black. Marcy knows it is her fault. There is something missing inside of her.
She is missing some connecting parts, like Lego bridges. They are magnetic social norm parts. They are the parts that make people like sports, and book clubs, and Dancing With the Stars.
Marcy was born an outlier, an observer, and an artist. As she grabs her coat and heads for the door, she wonders what life would have been like if she hadn’t missed that bus, and if she had learned to fit in.
(If you leave a comment, please check back. I always respond.)
Marcy got up from her perch and went to get dressed for another day of waiting tables, and of counting hours until she could come home again. As she pulled her hair back into a low ponytail, the photos taped to her bedroom mirror caught her eye. They were the smiling faces of dead relatives. They were her company.
Each person who loved her and died made the world a little dimmer. She tries to find new lights, but they never turn on. They just flicker and fade to black. Marcy knows it is her fault. There is something missing inside of her.
She is missing some connecting parts, like Lego bridges. They are magnetic social norm parts. They are the parts that make people like sports, and book clubs, and Dancing With the Stars.
Marcy was born an outlier, an observer, and an artist. As she grabs her coat and heads for the door, she wonders what life would have been like if she hadn’t missed that bus, and if she had learned to fit in.
(If you leave a comment, please check back. I always respond.)