If He'd Been Any Other Boy, And

I Honestly Don't Have Many Creative Outlets. I'm Not Crafty - Although Motherhood Has Forced Me To Try To Be - And I Can Only Draw Trees, Beaches, And Clouds. I'm A So-so Cook Except For Deviled Eggs. Writing Has Always Been The One Thing I Feel That I Am Pretty Good At Doing. But It's Enough, Thank Goodness.

It Was So Easy To Disown What You Couldn't Recognize, To Keep Yourself Apart From Things That Were Foreign And Unsettling. The Only Person You Can Be Sure To Control, Always, Is Yourself. Which Is A Lot To Be Sure Of, But At The Same Time, Not Enough.

He Was Looking At Me, Jsut As I'd Thought He Would Be, But Like Bert's, His Light Was Not What I Expected. No Pity, No Sadness: Nothing Had Changed. I Realized All The Times I'd Felt People Stare At Me, Their Faces Had Been Pictures, Abstracts. None Of Them Were Mirrors, Able To Reflect Back The Expression I Thought One I Wore, The Feelings Only I Felt.

You Don't Have To Make Things Harder Then They Have To Be Just To Prove A Point.

I Am The Middle Sister. The One In Between. Not Oldest, Not Youngest, Not Boldest, Not Nicest. I Am The Shade Of Gray, The Glass Half Empty Or Full, Depending On Your View. In My Life, There Has Been Little That I Have Done First Or Better Than The One Preceding Or Following Me. Of All Of Us, Though, I Am The Only One Who Has Been Broken.