Year of Fragments

I remember. There was. A year of frozen pizzas and tears. Books, yoga, and word documents. I wrote. Lots back then. It was all worthy. To crumble, to throw in the trash the second the printer spat it out. But – mine. I remember. Cooking, baking, cleaning. The housewife of wonders, but a girl. Hiding inside perspective.


Never told right from wrong. My own integrity. Pleasing others and becoming comfortable mattered. Masterminding. I stabilized I. Second place God.


Empty house: him working, him practicing, me bathing. The water. Hot! Spilling over: face, back, hands. Thirty minutes, an hour. World go by. Slowly.


On occasion: a room, a couch, a cliché. The doctor: “Be serious. Stop. Release.” Of course. Shutting down not living. I would nod. Go home, cry, write.


People looked. I giggled. But exposed, I rearmed. Family watched and I was… frail. Friends flitted. In and out of life. They watched. Smiles covering. Absence met absence. Nobody knew.


That year. The numb year. Introverted, a housewife.


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