Gripping the lectern, rocking it, searching the faces for the souls, for signs of heartfelt mindfulness at work, I thought, as I recited words I wrote in tears: instead of tears, if I had understood my father's business, I could be selling men's clothes. I could be kneeling, complimenting someone at the bay of mirrors, mumblingly, with pinpoints pressed between my lips. That was the life I held in scorn while young, because I thought to live without distraction, using words. Yet, looking now into the room of strangers' eyes, I wanted them to feel what I said touch, as palpably as when a men in double worsted felt the cuff drop to his wrist. There was a rush in the applause of gratitude and mercy: they could go. A teenager, embarrassed for himself and me, lefthandedly squeezed my fingers, and said thanks. Anonymous submission.
Added: 7 Apr 2002 | Last Read: 7 Sep 2026 5:24 AM | Viewed: 4491 times
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