He Never Wanted To Be

If I Decided To Send This To You, Where Would I Send It? When I Think Of Writing The Whole Address On The Envelope I Am Paralyzed. It's Too Painful To Think Of You In The Same Place With Your Life Going On In The Same Way, Minus Me. And To Think Of You Not There, You Somewhere Else But I Don't Know Where That Is, Is Worse.

We Say Of Some Things That They Can't Be Forgiven, Or That We Will Never Forgive Ourselves. But We Do-we Do It All The Time.

She Could Not Explain Or Quite Understand That It Wasn't Altogether Jealousy She Felt, It Was Rage. And Not Because She Couldn't Shop Like That Or Dress Like That. It Was Because That Was What Girls Were Supposed To Be Like. That Was What Men - People, Everybody - Thought They Should Be Like. Beautiful, Treasured, Spoiled, Selfish, Pea-brained. That Was What A Girl Should Be, To Be Fallen In Love With. Then She Would Become A Mother And She'd Be All Mushily Devoted To Her Babies. Not Selfish Anymore, But Just As Pea-brained. Forever.

The Deep, Personal Material Of The Latter Half Of Your Life Is Your Children. You Can Write About Your Parents When They're Gone, But Your Children Are Still Going To Be Here, And You're Going To Want Them To Come And Visit You In The Nursing Home.

Now I No Longer Believe That People's Secrets Are Defined And Communicable, Or Their Feelings Full-blown And Easy To Recognize.